Losing Faith
by Moirae333
Summary: Oh my goddess, she updated! Chapter 40: for all of you who have wondered the identity of the leader of the Last Alliance. Here it is. Book I completed, please consider leaving a review. Book II coming soon, hopefully.
1. The Prologue Years

**Title:** Losing Faith

**Format:** Epic

**Rating:** 18A (character death, language, violence, sexual innuendo, slash, suicide)

**Summary:** _"What if it all goes wrong? What if Harry Potter fails and he _cannot_ save us? What if everything we have fought for is in vain?"_

The Death Eaters' grip wraps tighter around the throat of their enemies, their territory now stretching across the lands of Britain with the death of Harry Potter. The Last Alliance is Britain's salvation. The five heirs hold the key to life itself. Ancient magicks and lost histories will be uncovered before their campaign nears their gateway in the Death Eater's defences. King Arthur, gargoyles, elves, vampires, trolls, werewolves. Sometimes, what they most fight for they've already lost.

It's not about war. It's about power.

**Genres:** drama, dark, fantasy, angst, war, light mystery, humour

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All original characters, places, plots and objects are owned by Moirae and are not to be used without permission.

**Writers's Notes:** A special thanks to Jon, for without you I couldn't have done this, but I would probably be a lot saner than I am now. And so I blame you for my mental difficulties. Thank you muchly to anyone (Leslie and Death Hawk especially) who has offered their time to beta parts of this story--there's been a few who have come and gone in the past years and some who have stayed.

Everything in this fanfic is not written in on a whim--everything does have a meaning. The tense will be in present tense, save for the prologue. I have heard that those who are not used to it find it different at first but find it very worth-while to keep reading. I use British spelling and grammar, so if you think something is wrong, there's a chance that it's just Britainised. Please let me know and I will double check with my dictionary and internet resources.

**IMPORTANT**

**This story was _started _November of 2002 so _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix _will not be incorporated into the plot. And therefore, _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ is not in the plot either. _Losing Faith_ is a now story that takes place in an Alternate Universe as the HP world that JKR set up. **

**That means, for all you Sirius lovers, he is here, and he will play an important role in the story. But that also means that whatever first names I created for JK's last-name-only characters, I decided to keep. This is because: they are usually named for a reason, and I had asked via email my readers on this site and the HPDC and the vote was pretty much unanimous to keep them as the names I created. It sets more of an AU-tone. I also kept middle names I might have created before JK released them (example: Remus John Lupin, his middle name is Joshua in here). Characters who might have appeared in Book Five of the series might be of different age (example: Roger Davies--he was still in _OotP_, but in this story he graduated after _GoF_).**

**I also noticed that back when writing the first few chapters in 2002 there were characters that were considered Hufflepuff but when OotP came out, they were canonised as being Ravenclaw. I've kept them as Hufflepuff.**

**/end important**

As of February 17 of 2006, the prologue has been revamped, along with Chapters one through ten. I hope that the beginning is a bit more enjoyable to read.

As you read through the story, you may notice certain homages to the god, Joss Whedon. _Buffy_ and _Angel_ are two of the best shows I've ever had the pleasure of watching and this story has quite a few tributes to them. I also reference X-Men, Poppy Z. Brite, Queer as Folk, biblical stories and Wicca. I'm sure there's more, I just can't remember them.

If you read, please be courteous and leave a constructive review telling me what you liked and what could be improved upon. Flames will be used to roast marshy-mallows. I also have cheesecake for those who pick up on all the symbolism and subtleness.

And now that we are done with the essay before the fan fiction (which is now half the length of the prologue), thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the show.

* * *

**Losing Faith **

**The Prologue**

_:Ballad of Serenity, by Joss Whedon:_

_Take my love  
Take my land  
Take me where I cannot stand  
I don't care if I'm still free  
You can't take the sky from me  
Take me out to the black  
Tell 'em I ain't comin' back  
Burn the land and boil the sea  
You can't take the sky from me  
Have no place I can be  
Since I found Serenity  
But you can't take the sky from me_

**... 21 September 1995 ...**

The full moon hung low through the skeletal trees of the forest, its silky light cast down over the realm of black-robed figures and reflected off moonstone masks. Lord Voldemort remained motionless in the centre of his faction, his arms outstretched as though paying homage to the ancient magicks which brought him back to power less than three months earlier. A new collection of pawns knelt in reverence to their Lord, their unworthy eyes turned to the rocky soil.

"My friends" Lord Voldemort started in his silver-tongued voice, "we stand here tonight because of the gods' desire. Rise, for thirteen years have you anticipated this night." He glanced around the circle of hopeful Death Eaters, his voice bringing them from their knees. Voldemort's skull-knobbed wand was gripped with white knuckles, and he gazed pensively at the seven Death Eaters surrounding him. He stopped at one and lunged forward, seizing the wizard by the wrist.

The Death Eater's hazel eyes flickered at the touch of his Lord's hand, and he revealed his forearm with hesitation. Voldemort's phoenix-feather wand lightly traced the tanned skin, and then plunged deep into the flesh. The skin around the wand blackened and died, twisted into the hideous form of the Dark Mark. The disease of necrosis formed an open-mouthed skull with a slithering snake, and the pain coursed through the nerves of the Ravenclaw Death Eater. The ache brought him to his knees, and a deep-throated scream suddenly escaped from his lips before he was aware that he was indeed screaming.

A sneer tugged at the thin lips of Lord Voldemort, and he withdrew his blood-tipped wand from his Death Eater's wrist. He and took a step toward the next wizard forming the circle. This wizard's only cowardice was a deep-throated whimper as Lord Voldemort slowly pushed the wand into his forearm.

The third was a Hufflepuff witch with straight caramel hair and moss-coloured eyes. She bowed at the waist with respect, her eyes sparking as her Lord pressed his wand into her skin, and shuddered against the ecstasy she felt as necrosis brought upon the Dark Mark.

The fourth and fifth fell unconscious beneath the pain, and the sixth was a coward and fled.

Lord Voldemort's scornful laughter rose above the trees as a brilliant green light erupted from his wand, illuminating the forest with eerie lightning. The coward abruptly fell, his deadened eyes staring towards the stars.

Fretful cerulean eyes of the seventh gaped at the fallen wizard, and he wrung his hands together anxiously, to keep them from shaking. Crimson strands of summer-grown hair tumbled loose from beneath the heavy hood, sweeping over horn-rimmed glasses.

Voldemort smirked. "Weasley."

**... 31 October 1996 ...**

_She was screaming long after she was dead._

Harry Potter found Parvarti Patil crumpled over her twin's body. She grasped Padma's cocoa braids, muttering in defeated sobs about broken promises. With tears overflowing from her brown-sugar eyes, Parvarti stared up into the shocked face of Harry, and looked through him.

"I won't leave you," she sobbed to her twin as the braids slipped through her hands. She looked to her sister's paled face as though she responded, she shook her head. Parvarti's trembling hands clung the collar of the blue Ravenclaw robes as she rested against Padma's chest. "I wish not to be alone."

Halloween breakfast still littered the wooden tables in the Great Hall. Large pitchers of pumpkin juice were spilt over poppy seed muffins and buttery biscuits. A few students were dropped into their morning plates, their lifeless hands resting over silver knives and forks. They never saw it coming.

Fragments of stained glass windows dotted the stone floor. Some shards were wrapped in the soft robes of those Death Eaters who had broken through the shields and entered Hogwarts.

Factions of black wizards riding with Death fell upon the Hogwarts students shortly after breakfast began, erupting emerald-lit curses through the harvest-decorated hall. The candles which lit the Great Hall with starry brilliance flickered and died as winds howled through the broken windows.

Despite those bright and courageous students who took up arms with their professors, the Death Eaters were numerous; the icy-shiver of Death walked away with many students. The losses were past one-hundred and fifty when Hermione Granger retreated to her dorm, exhausted. She fell into a deep sleep, filled with frightening plans and malevolent laughter, before she hit her bunk.

But the Minister could not cover up this act of violence as he had been doing with so many others. The Ministry of Magic extended their support to Dumbledore's division known as The Order of the Pheonix, and sent out many warnings to both the wizarding folk and Muggle government.

Seventeen months after the incident, the Daily Prophet announced the return of Voldemort.

**... July 1998 ...**

The heroism of The Order of the Phoenix would be their last downfall.

Black robed figures dotted the horizon painted with the dawning sun. They approached quickly the ranks of the white-robed, and the lines clashed into a grey blur. The battle was fought over the early morning hours, over an overused battle-field which claimed many bloody souls.

Voldemort's numbers were stronger than that of The Order of the Phoenix; the strength he found betrayed traditional bloodlines. There would have been no shame in running. The first line of the white-robed wizards were slaughtered with powerful fireball spells, the flames spreading quickly over the plains. Curses were strewn from both sides, and many of the second and third lines fell beneath emerald and sapphire assaults.

When the last of the flames extinguished and silver smoke stopped swelling from the charred grasses, Harry Potter's companion fell over lifeless. The twinkle in Albus Dumbledore's eyes vanished as he stared into the vacant sky. Harry cried over his mentor's body, his ears neglecting the sounds of war surrounding him.

And then, two wizards who fought for the same side, one with white-blond hair and another with fiery red, formed the words of the killing curse at the two wizards who commanded the armies.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

The brilliant shade of Harry's eyes matched that of the killing curse. Harry Potter's and Lord Voldemort's eyes glazed over harmoniously, and they pitched forward into the burnt grasses.

Those who had not fallen beneath the Death Eaters were taken as prisoners of war and kept far below Hogwarts in the dungeons, their wands broken and burnt. If any of the wizards who fought against them escaped, they never noticed, but a few factions were sent to secure the perimetre. Almost everyday new wizards were scared from their hiding places and thrown into rooms which were magically locked. Lucius Malfoy immediately took command after Voldemort's death and requested a report on their victory.

The wizarding world had been meant to be saved by Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Both were now cold, and the Death Eaters' eyes were drawn to the other half of England. Lord Malfoy sent divisions of Death Eaters to Muggle towns and cities, and those who resisted in the occupation of their lives were executed. Changes sprang up over the following months. Tall brick walls were magically placed around occupied cities, while townspeople might have been lucky enough to escape into neighbouring countries. Those who weren't were taken into the large prison camps which used to be cities.

Within the short time of a year, the Muggle world knew everything about the wizarding war, and the Muggle governments talked about taking action against the occupied country of England. And soon, their talks expanded into the small land of Scotland as the Death Eaters invaded.

While the Death Eaters busied themselves with matters above ground, members of The Order and the Ministry of Magic were eventually taken from their small imprisonments and reunited in specialised camps the Death Eaters established around the United Kingdom. These were erected outside of the cities to hold wizards, and those who posed a threat were held in solitary confinement. In the centre of each of these camps were Death Eater headquarters, heavily guarded.

And Lord Lucius Malfoy's hand stretched across the occupied island.


	2. Chapter One : Poor Maiden

**Losing Faith Book I**

"_I know people die. I hear about it everyday." _- Penelope Clearwater

**Chapter One : Poor Maiden**

A young woman sits before a bay window, her hands folded neatly on her lap, simple white robes flowing from her slouched shoulders. Her eyes are dark brown, and ebony hair falls just past her pierced ears. Her jaw line is gentle and her frame thin; she appears to be in her mid-twenties, but the agonising years are slowly catching up with her.

The grounds of the castle--the central command centre of the Death Eaters--are covered with luxuriant grasses. The early morning sun peeks over the clouds as warm rays shine over the woman and into the small chamber. Once alive with books and potions and even a wondrous phoenix, the room now lies dull and empty, furnished only with an ornate chair in front of the window. She sighs as the door to the chambers is hastily opened and a man walks in.

His white-blond hair sways behind him as he walks forward, hands clasped over a staff of a silver serpent with a frozen ruby mouth. His robes are as black as night and are fastened at his neck with a grey clasp in the shape of a snake. The robes billow behind him, and his footsteps echo through the empty room.

"Where were you, Marie?" His voice is stern and hoarse, and age lines have begun to show around his ice grey eyes.

Marie Amitri slowly gives her attention to Lucius Malfoy. "I wasn't hungry," comes her soft reply. She turns away from the Lord and continues to stare out of the window onto the sun-lit grounds where a young male Death Eater backhands a dark-haired woman across her cheek.

The antique grandfather clock chimes ten, and Lucius strides closer.

"It does not matter if you are hungry or not. You are to be the perfect woman for the perfect leader. Is this within your comprehension?" He looks down at her and crosses his arms. "Your life is beneath my hand, Marie. Never forget that."

Marie remains silent as she places her hand on the window, the coolness of the glass more comforting than the words of this man. Sighing deeply, she forces herself to her feet, her robes trailing on the grey marble floor, her hand leaving a skeletal handprint on the fogged glass.

"I know, Lucius. I remember the time I was taken in by you. I understood then what I was, and it has never left me, my love." For the past three years she has been Lucius Malfoy's lady, although she had only loved him for one. It had happened so unexpectedly; she had never thought her father would allow it. But, after Lucius himself had murdered her father, things had changed. Marie's mother had given her only daughter to the Death Eater to save her own neck.

Five years before, when Marie had only been a seventh-year Ravenclaw in Hogwarts, Narcissa, Lucius's withdrawn, detached wife and mother of his heir, had taken gravely ill. She had died shortly afterwards, and a year later, Lucius's interests had grown in the young Marie.

"It will never leave you." Lucius smirks as he takes a confident step forward, his staff clanking on the floor. "I still remember when I first saw you with your father in Knockturn Alley. So beautiful and energetic." His voice is low and seductive, and he breathes from his mouth. Licking his lips, his eyes follow her curves to the floor and back up again. She is amazing to him, with her pronounced hips and slender waist, and very defined features. Grabbing her without warning around her upper arm, he jerks her closer and kisses her violently before quickly pulling away.

"Avery is waiting for me. Change and be sure to be in attendance for dinner. You resemble a whore, and no woman of mine will be seen dressed as a whore in the company of others." Lucius turns and leaves the chamber without another sound, except for his echoing footsteps.

Marie exhales and grimaces.

* * *

_There was a clash_ _of shattering glass close to her mother's head. Seventeen-year-old Marie stayed seated at the top of the marble staircase. She'd heard this music many times before, and she could never fall asleep when it played. She listened every night since she was young to her parents' arguments. _

"_I will not sell her into a life with no future, Tahirah!" Marie's loving father bellowed. His black hair fell just past his equally dark eyes, and his figure was lean; he had been a wonderful Quidditch Keeper for Ravenclaw during his days at Hogwarts, nearly twenty years ago._

_His wife, who had married for convenience and money, gave him a contemptuous glance. She had darker skin, which contrasted her husband's. Her eyes were a rich almond, and her raven black hair fell straight. Her ancestry could be traced back to the time of the Pharaohs in Egypt, and her blood was pure in both respects. _

"_We--I will not let Lucius have her!"_

"_Then we die, fool! I did not come to this land to be killed by such a man! I can save myself by handing my daughter to him. He will protect her, and we will be safe!" Tahirah placed her hands over her slim hips, tilting her head to the side. She controlled this man; he usually submitted himself to her. _

_This, however, was not a matter on which he wanted to hold back. This was their daughter, his only daughter, and he loved her more than he did his cold-hearted wife. _

"_You think he will give her a better life?" he spat incredulously. "She's twenty years younger than he is. How could that be any better than what we can give? I have not sacrificed all I have and more to have her a Death Eater and Malfoy's sodding mistress."_

* * *

Marie shudders at the memories as she opens a small heirloom box located beneath the chair. Placing the box on her lap, she leafs through old newspaper clippings and photos until one grabs her attention. It is dated August 31 of 1995--exactly four years ago to the day--and the headline reads: **_Jerrell Amitri Dies in Freak Magic Accident._**

Lucius had murdered Jerrell, and Tahirah fled the country.

Marie doesn't want to think about where she would be if Lucius had not wanted her.


	3. Chapter Two : Forsaken

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Two : Forsaken**

Bill Weasley glances around, his eyes bored with the monotonous events unfolding in the camp. Death Eaters without masks patrol the streets, their hands griping their wands positioned in their belts. Bill cannot remember the Death Eaters having to use force in his living area, most of the prisoners spent their time with loved ones, warming their hands against the cold chill of the coming winter.

The camp referred to as Alpha was erected outside of the occupied city of London, and was separated into sections named for Greek letters. The Weasleys are assigned to the sector known as Theta. While they have freedom to move around the camp, from sector to sector, they have yet to find any of their old mates.

Fred and George don't know if their two best friends, Lee Jordan and Oliver Wood, are alive. They haven't heard anything from them since the last wizarding battle in July of 1998. They mourn the loss of Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, two of the best Chasers the Gryffindor team had ever seen. They fell beneath the killing curse from Malfoy's wand.

Ron's life turned into one of loneliness. Harry, his best mate, died valiantly in battle, along with Dean Thomas and the other Patil twin. He had talked to Seamus Finnigan in the earlier months, but Ron could not see past the black robes Seamus now wears. Neville Longbottom, a boy Ron was never really fond of, was taken to Beta Camp, another group wizarding prison which is located near Peterborough. Hermione Granger, the girl Ron has loved since his sixth year, and one of his best friends, lives in a separate sector of Camp Alpha. She doesn't stay there; she is often seen with the Weasleys. Nonetheless, her eyes tell Ron she would rather be in Camp Lambda with Viktor Krum, the wizard she was more or less seeing for four years.

Late-November winds strike fires burning inside oil drums. Five red-headed wizards and one seventeen-year-old witch warm themselves around this fire and talk animatedly to one another about Yule seasons past spent and deceased parents. Ginny skilfully moulds the conversation to the one Weasley brother who is missing. She talks fondly of him, but Charlie always changes this subject.

"The past is the past," Charlie steadily reminds his younger sister.

"If we do not learn from our past, we are doomed to repeat it," Ginny comments. She pulls her black wool cloak closer, securing it around the neck of her sun-faded red robes. The cold cement seeps chills down Ginny's spine as her feet freeze a little bit more. Beside her stands Ron, who stares vacantly, mesmerized at the orange and blue flames.

The twins sit on the mortar steps of the building with their tongues tied to all except each other. They sit beyond the warmth from the fire, Fred resting his head against George's shoulder, feigning sleep. As the others remain silent around the fire, rubbing their hands together for warmth, George gently nudges his twin awake.

"What?" Fred asks rather loudly, cracking an eye open.

"Shhh," hisses George. He slides his hand into his thick grey robes and pulls out a leaf of parchment charred around the edges. It is covered with a list of names: these are, or were, the heroes of The Order of the Phoenix.

Fred sighs, and leans his head against the wooden railing of the steps. "This is what you woke me for? Bleedin' hell, George, it's irrelevant now," he groans, letting his smoke-coloured, bloodshot eyes close.

George stares at him for several moments, speechless, and Fred's words penetrate his heart. He momentarily considers letting Fred continue his imitation of sleep, finding comfort in the peaceful expression of Fred's freckled face.

"Aren't you at all curious?" he eventually asks.

"Of course, George. There were thousands of people there, though. How can we hope to find the one we search for? We can't account for most fighters. It's the past, and as Charlie reminds us, the past doesn't matter." He opens an eye only to glance over, but George is preoccupied with the parchment of Order heroes.

George glares, and crumples the paper in his hand as though in spite. "You're starting to sound like Charlie," he scorns. "Everyone we know is either dead or dying, Frederick. Was I so wrong to do this? I wanted"--his voice cracks--"to know who our hero is."

The parchment is taken by Fred in apology.

This is the famous theory of who killed Lord Voldemort.

The twins bend over the list, whispering hurriedly as they scratch off names or add some on. They struggle to remember what happened during the blurry battle over the five months--only half the names remain on the list now, based on their small knowledge of who fell, when, and who had been seen with who. They are no better off with this than they were five months ago, and reflecting upon these deaths is painful.

"So, who is our hero?" Fred asks after a long silence, and George crosses off another name.

Charlie glances over and abruptly replies, "All the heroes are dead. Why are you two still fretting over that bloody parchment?" He furrows his eyebrows and exhales sharply, standing. "Give me that, the fire is dying." He quickly snatches the paper from Fred's hands, much to the dismay of the twins.

What mindless drivel are they polluting their minds with now? Charlie assumes.

"Bloody hell, Charlie! What crawled up your arse?" George shouts, jumping to his feet with Fred in tow. "We are attempting to solve a great mystery, here!" George draws himself up, paralleling what Percy did when he was Head Boy.

"Mystery?" Charlie scoffs.

"Who is the hero who killed Lord Voldemort?"

All colour leaves Charlie's face as he stalls, crushing the paper into a ball. "Listen, it doesn't matter who did it. All that matters is that, even though You-Know-Who is dead, we are no better off."

He throws the parchment into the fire.

It burns with silver ashes.

The twins can't help but think Charlie is hiding something.

And Charlie can't help but be bitterly unpleasant, because of what he knows.


	4. Chapter Three : Yuletide Memento

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Three : Yuletide _Memento_**

"Bill!" Ginny cries hysterically, her sweat-damp hair falling before her bright brown eyes. She frantically pulls her fringe back, a few strands stick to her clammy forehead, as she's shoved inside their home by Charlie Weasley. Virginia Weasley cranks her head towards the street before the door closes, though her oldest brother's body remains obscured by the twins and Ron. But she still glimpses the small stream of blood shining around Bill's head and chest.

**Earlier That Afternoon:**

"What's it to you? You sodding prat. It's your kind that gives us all a bad name. You bloody wizards. That's what this is all about. You and your secret societies and wars and schools! Even a government! Of course this is all your. bloody. fault." Alden Darling presses his middle finger to Bill's chest and taps it with every syllable. His breath reeks of cheap liquor, and his eyes are glassy. He staggers to stand, and Bill must steady him by the left arm, his fingernails digging deeply into Alden's skin.

"Sit down, Alden," Bill demands, in that commanding tone he's come to favour. "This is no one's fault besides those who put us here." The evening sun glares off of his long red hair which Bill has tied back. The dragon fang earring dangles from his left ear, an annoyance which quirks Alden more.

"Those who _put _us here?" Alden shrieks, outraged, and his ears turn as scarlet as Bill's hair. He sobers in an miraculous instant. "You _are _those who _put _us here!"

"No, _Mister Alden Darling_, those who _put _us here are the Death Eaters, and _only _the Death Eaters. Me and mine will not be held responsible for the actions of a small group of wizards when most of us were the ones who fought to save this state. Now, I suggest you head back to your building. I wouldn't want to do something in front of the children when it is completely unnecessary," Bill admonishes in an icy voice although he shakes inside. A few locks of red hair fall from his ponytail and before his lagoon blue eyes, but he does not brush them away. He does not uncross his arms which are folded on his chest.

"Children, eh?" Alden cocks his head, tracing seventeen-year-old Ginny's thin figure hungrily, forbidden passion lurking in the shadows of his eyes. "She doesn't look too young to me. I might fancy taking her for a spin one night. Better tell that _pure child_ to watch her back . . ." Alden smirks and waggles his eyebrows.

Bill stares at Alden a moment longer, his gaze burrowing through as he clenches his fists at his sides. "You." A vein pops in his neck. "_Fucking_." His hands pump at a steady momentum. "Muggle." And he lunges.

Bill's fist finds Alden's smirking face. Alden's head snaps back to his right. He staggers as he loses his footing, and he wipes a smear of blood from his cracked and swollen lower lip as he glares at the eldest Weasley. His attention falls to Bill's scarlet-bullion graduation ring, noting the small and opaque strip of lip tissue. Nevertheless, Alden smiles, and doesn't hesitate as he charges at Bill.

Alden wraps his hands around Bill's neck, and with a burly vigour he slams him to the ground. Straddling Bill's chest, Alden lays his right fist across Bill's face in quick succession as the nails of his left hand dig into the skin of Bill's neck. Salvia sputters from his mouth as Alden incoherently yells. Bill strongly fights from below, shocked at both the strength of this slight man and the suddenness of the attack.

From the dreary buildings nearby, people yell "Fight!" and come to watch, in hopes that some excitement might be brought into their desolate existence. Some cheer Bill on while the others support Alden. A few of the more aggressive ones, those who have buried their hostile behaviour deep within, break and start to attack each other in the heat of the moment.

"Charlie, take Ginny inside!" Ron yells as he dives at Alden, crashing his shoulder into the other man's chest and forces him and Bill apart.

Ginny protests silently as her eyes meet with Bill's. His lip is split and stinging, blood trickles down his jaw. His left eye is swollen and has turned an unsightly purple and blue. He stumbles to his feet, yanking Alden up by the hair at the base of his neck. Ron steps away, following an order from Bill, who would rather deal with this himself. He's the eldest. It's his job to protect the family; _his job._

Parting through the mob, two Death Eaters hurriedly approach, momentarily ignoring the brawlers. Ron recognises the Death Eater guards as the pale-faced Draco Malfoy and the supercilious Travis Nott.

Alden's neck snaps back. His Adam's apple protrudes slightly as Bill's grip tightens. Bill mutters something. In return, Alden spits bloody saliva to the ground. Alden's hand enters his overcoat. He draws out a concealed pocket-knife. With a sharp jerk of his wrist, the blade is withdrawn.

And he thrusts.

Bill's eyes widen for a moment, and he cannot breathe.

Alden wrings free of Bill's grasp and he shoves forward, knocking Bill over with one blow to the chest. Alden doesn't take time to draw the dulled knife back; he forces it through the skin and cartilage of Bill's chest, using both hands to govern the knife across bone and into the left lung.

Bill coughs blood as he gasps for air. His hands feebly scratch at Alden's arms.

Alden stops for a moment. He stares at the blood spilling from Bill's slacked mouth before he yanks the blade from cartilage and brings the blade across Bill's throat.

With mortal crimson waters forming around Bill and staining the hands and clothes of Alden, the Death Eaters Draco and Travis approach, having offhandedly fought their way through the thick crowd. They haphazardly heave an exhausted Alden from Bill, leading him away under the Imperious Curse for Gene Avery to decide punishment.

That night, Gene Avery will execute Alden Darling with _Avada Kedavra._

**In the Morning**:

Alden Darling is a thin, pale man of thirty years with dirty brown hair, matching eyes, and a hooked nose. His fixations include, and are sadly limited to, women and sex, but his loathing goes deeper and all are rooted in the wizarding world. No matter which alliance someone belonged to, if they were a wizard or witch, he thought them a disgrace to this Earth. His accidental transfer to the wizarding camp of Alpha placed Alden's vision of what the world should not be in his mind.

Alden never married--a woman never wanted to subject herself to his lifestyle--but he does have many relatives, all of whom are inside the city walls of London. But they never dreamt of forcing him to change his ways. Alden himself did not want to tie himself down to only one woman. Many females, or whores, as he preferred to call them, often took to his bed, but only once.

Mister Darling is also a self-centred man, looking out for only himself, without any regard for others. If he were a successful businessman, he would pride himself on ruthlessness in his field. He is, however, hardly successful, nor is he anything a businessman should be. On top of that, he is very closed-minded. Change is something to be avoided at all costs, and if someone is any different than him, they will be condemned. He keeps to himself, and not many people know of, or muddle in, his affairs.

But there is something about Alden that only the women he has shagged know.

Alden's toenails are painted black, and he wears women's lace undergarments.

From the chipped grey steps of the equally grey building, Alden watches with dreary, narrow eyes as the redheaded wizards exchange cheap handmade Yuletide gifts which have been wrapped in grey paper. Over the past three months, he has come to despise them. So cheerful, so familial, with the exception of one, the second oldest.

Alden despises anything cheery and bright. The camp has been decorated to give this dank place a Yuletide feel with old silver and red tinsel, and shape-shifting trees that house too many shiny balls and images of angelic angels. Yule logs have been lit in those buildings that are fortunate enough to have fireplaces, and those that don't have silver and white candles lit on the steps.

This is the first Yule season for everyone in the camps.

By one o'clock in the afternoon, one of the twins has fallen back asleep, and the only girl (Alden remembers the others calling her Ginny) is talking with the oldest, her scarlet hair in curls and brown eyes sparkling. She rests her elbows on her knees; her loose robes hang from her shoulders. Alden remains transfixed on her cleavage, which rises and falls with her every breath.

Alden shifts uncomfortably in his slacks that are now too tight. He stands to approach the Weasleys.


	5. Chapter Four : Ghosts of Peace

**Chapter Four : Ghosts of Peace**

  
  
Percival Weasley wakes and rolls over to run his fingers through Penelope Clearwater's curly hair. He stares into her azure eyes, unusually listless and dull, and the beginning of an apprehensive grimace appears on the corners of his mouth. "What?" he asks, his voice quivering, and he sits up. 

"I--I don't want to be here any more. I miss Roger and Katie, and as much as I hate to admit it, even Oliver." She hesitates, her eyes taking on a haunted look as Percy's hand continues stroking her side. "Honestly, I would rather be at one of the camps. Then at least I'd be with people who care for me." 

Percy gapes, quite unsure if anger or pain is more appropriate here. "You have everything you could ever want at this castle. But most importantly, you're safe. People die in those camps, innocent people! My brother died last month. He was protecting Ginny," he says, his voice composed only due to practice. 

A few stands of recently cut crimson hair fall before his melancholy cerulean eyes, and he brushes them away before reaching for his black horned-rimmed glasses. He is still as lanky as ever, standing a little over six feet; his shoulders have broadened slightly. 

"I know people die. I hear about it everyday." 

Percy stands, grabbing angrily for the black robes slung over Penelope's oak trunk she's only kept for sentimental worth. "When will you realise that your place is here with me?" He throws the robes over his shoulders, his fingers fumbling as he hastily buttons them. 

"All the women here have a function, Percy. Whether it is to be these blokes' sex toys or to bring up the children, they are treated as objects, never as people!" She sits up, clutching the white sheets to her chest in modesty. Her hair cascades down to the middle of her back, a few freckles grace her cheeks. Her frame is easy on the eye, and the years have served this twenty-two year old extremely well. 

"I'm not a object! No one here is." 

Percy swears he can hear her voice crack, break, and he turns his back towards her. "I have power now that I am a Death Eater. Power I could've never dreamt of with the Ministry. How can you not understand that? I'm someone here, I'm feared." He slams the oak doors to the Ravenclaw-blue chamber as he leaves, and Penelope begins to cry silent tears. 

From the lower staircase at the end of the dank corridor, another Death Eater, his hair raven black and eyes ice blue, emerges. He holds his breath as he watches the redhead slam the door to Penelope's chamber and stand there for several seconds before striding away. And Adrian Pucey exhales, following Percy down the stone hall whose walls still bleed fresh blood although the slaughtering has long since stopped. 

"Do you make it a point to follow me, Pucey?" Percy slows in his tracks, his head angled to the side as he surveys Adrian with a suspicious eye. "Or are you merely the average stalker?" 

"Don't flatter yourself, Weasley," Adrian snaps. A beloved sketchbook and various other books are tucked safely under his left arm, and a couple of charcoal pencils are shoved lazily into the pocket of his navy non-issue robes. His hair is tousled slightly on the side as though he fell asleep while it was still wet. Adrian is half-a-head shorter than Percy and is rather athletic, though he considers himself more of an artist now. 

"You shouldn't be down here." 

"Look at yourself--don't talk to me about where I should be." Adrian tightens his grasp on the sketchpad, his eyes never straying from the Weasley he's hated since their fifth year at Hogwarts, which was nearly six years ago. 

"I have someone here," Percy replies, authority laced in his voice. His eyes dart to the sketchpad, but after some consideration he decides to leave it. The last thing Percy needs is an angry Adrian sending Marcus Flint to pulverise him. Although it would be an excellent way to rid himself of that brutish troll, Percy considers himself better than them. 

Adrian grunts. "That Mudblood? She belongs at the camps, or better yet, six feet under. You're a Death Eater, Weasley. A Death Eater. Do you know what that means? You have your pick of any woman around here, anyone in the camps or anyone in the castle." His mind wanders momentarily to one woman in particular--the one he would never want Percy to handle. "Why do you insist on disgracing yourself with that--that trash?" 

Percy's ears redden with each passing moment, his hand clench at his sides as he glares at Adrian, his eyes narrowing in distaste. "Penelope is no disgrace! Listen, Pucey, I love her." 

"As Flint loves Landon? Fuck, Weasley, that Penelope whore isn't worth loving. Where has it gotten you? Nowhere. Have you stepped a foot from this castle in the last seven months? I doubt it. You haven't been in the camps to see that people are crying because loved ones are dead! Bloody hell, your family thinks you are dead! They don't know that you're a Death Eater. And if they did, love would turn to hate. It's simple, it's easy, and too many people are doing it. Lovers pitted against lovers, friends against friends, family against family. You say you love Penelope Clearwater? You don't know what love is. You think you do, you think you know everything. But you're no better than you were at Hogwarts! Wisdom is overrated, love is overrated. There is only one thing that we can depend on, Weasley, and that's power." 

Percy folds his arms and allows himself a little rueful laugh. "You are nothing but a little boy, Pucey," Percy begins stiffly. "Hiding behind your misplaced pride while you were at Hogwarts. You never let anyone know the real you. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't be standing here now telling me that love and wisdom, and whatever else you have to spit at me, are useless and overrated." 

"It's the truth. You're just too damn proud to admit it." Adrian shrugs. 

"No, you don't understand what wisdom and love can get you. Without them, power is irrelevant." Percy pauses, glancing around as the rising sun appears over one of the windows of the grimy and forgotten corridor he and Adrian decided to face off in. "As hard as it is for you to understand love, I do love Penelope. So just sod off." Percy spins on his heels, his posture and emotions never faltering, never betraying the sort of Death Eater he has now become. 

"You shouldn't love anyone!" Adrian calls as he watches Percy disappear hastily around the corner, probably heading back towards the warm chamber he calls home. He waits until the hollow echoing footsteps fade into the distance before adding with a solemn tone. "They'll just be taken from you." 

Travis Nott glares at Oliver Wood, and he tightens his grip on the clipboard he holds protectively against his chest. The Death Eater and former Gryffindor walk along the streets of Camp Alpha, their boots spattering in freshly fallen snow. They ignore the ranks of desolate prisoners, some of who glower at Oliver for conversing with the Death Eater, while others gaze dully on with hopeless eyes and red noses. 

Travis huffs irritably as Oliver makes another quick move for his clipboard locked beneath his crossed arms. "Listen, Wood, I don't know where the Weasleys are," Travis snaps, his olive-coloured eyes focussing on Oliver's. "By Merlin, it's none of your business; why don't you be a good little wanker and sod off?" 

Oliver exhales sharply and runs his hands through his greasy hair. "Bloody hell, just look at that bleedin' clipboard!" he exasperates; but his only response from Travis is a well-formed and practiced sneer.   
  
"Don't you have something better to do than pester me?" 

"There is nothing more important than finding me mates!" 

Travis stops and momentarily contemplates reaching for his wand and death-cursing this annoyance away. In fact, as the moments pass and become greater, it seems more and more of an excellent idea; Travis reaches into the folds of his thick black robes, his fingers wrapping around the long, slender stick of yew. But before the curse can form past Travis's lips, the Head Death Eater of Camp Alpha emerges from headquarters and approaches. 

"What is the problem here, Nott?" Gene Avery, a short, round man possessing unattractive dirty-blond hair that curls slightly at his ears, slinks up behind them. He folds his arms over his chest, sizing up both wizards with one apathetic glance. 

Travis jumps and quickly removes his hand from his robes, leaving his wand to be unused and lonely. "Nothing that I cannot handle, sir!" Travis salutes his superior. 

Gene raises an eyebrow, his wide eyes--too wide for his rotund face and too common an ugly green--staring at Travis. "Sure. Hand me the clipboard, Nott. You're off duty," Gene dismisses. 

Travis lowers his head, reluctantly handing his prized clipboard to Gene before leaving, entering the main headquarters through oak doors, delighted to be out of the nippy January air. 

Gene turns to Oliver, his smile broad and pleasant. "Now, Wood. What seems to be the problem?" Gene may be an old Death Eater from the time of Lord Voldemort's first rise, but his heart goes out to these prisoners. Besides, he's assigned himself as the unofficial Head of Morale. 

"Uhh . . ." Oliver stammers, not noticing Gene's podgy arm finding its way to his slumped shoulders. "I have been attempting to locate the Weasleys for some time now"--and he adds as an afterthought--"sir." 

"Weasley . . . Weasley, eh?" Gene studies the clipboard that he grips in the hand of the arm draped over Oliver, his lip twists in concentration. "Tell me, Wood, are you still a Quidditch player?" It was an insensitive query; the prisoners aren't authorized magical items such as broomsticks, spell books ,and wands. 

Oliver kicks at an imaginary pebble, finding peculiar comfort in Gene's arm, and he shakes his head. 

Gene removes his arm and tucks his hands behind his back. "Pity, you play a good game. Ah, here we go. Weasley--Charles, Frederick, George, Ronald, and Virginia. Building Theta. A nice place it is, fairly large and roomy." His grin now reaches from ear to ear and he glimpses at Oliver for a reaction. 

Oliver's heart drops. "Bill and Percy?" 

Gene freezes--Percy had specifically told him not to tell the Weasleys, or anyone else for that matter, of his involvement with the Death Eaters, and Lucius Malfoy had confirmed this. "William was murdered last month. Percival has not been found." 

Chewing subconsciously on his lower lip, Oliver nods his head. 

"Building Theta is not far--three blocks south and one west. Good luck, Wood." 

Oliver begins to walk away, his mind in places of good times past. But before he rounds the corner, Gene suddenly calls out after him, "I'll be sure to ask you to be Keeper if Malfoy allows a Quidditch game to boost morale!" 


	6. Chapter Five : Civil Acts

**Chapter Five : Civil Acts**

  
  


"What. the. fuck?" 

Terence Higgs glances up for a brief moment at the Weasley who stands before him, wide-eyed and shocked. "I said, you're on guard duty for the next couple months." He goes back to sifting through a pile of papers, organising them in alphabetical order. 

Percy laughs dryly, as if this is merely some joke. "No. There is no way that I am taking the guard shift for three months. Especially if it's the sector to which my family has been assigned!" He shoves the papers back onto Terence's chaotic cedar desk, knocking a few stacks to the cement floor. The room in which they are in is small and dank. Silk cobwebs cling to the corners, and the only light radiating into Terence's office is that from a grimy circular window high above them. 

"You have to face them sooner or later." 

"I prefer later," Percy replies flatly, flopping heavily down into a cold metal chair. It is slightly uncomfortable, and he shifts awkwardly, all the while keeping his glaring eyes locked on Terence. 

"Listen Perce, it's better to do it now; they deserve to stop mourning your death. These are orders from Malfoy, so it's not like you can change them anyway." Terence bends to retrieve the papers of the last guard shift change, which had been two months into the Death Eater reign. 

"Lucius," Percy mumbles, an irritated look entering his bloodshot eyes. 

"Yeah, he also wanted me to pass this to you." He searches his desk, extracting a package from beneath a pile of forms. He passes it to Percy before going back to his work. "Just promise me you'll watch yourself. It gets crazy out there at times." 

"I know that!" snaps Percy, pushing himself from the chair, knocking it over with a loud clang. He crumples the letter in his hands and shoves it into his pocket, forgetting it momentarily. "To whom else have you bestowed the _honour _of guard duty?" Percy sneers, disgusted with Terence for the first time in three years. 

Terence shrugs, having too much on his mind at the moment to be concerned with Weasley's affairs. "At Alpha? Travers, Flint, Lestrange, Macnair, Baddock, Pritchard ... There's others, but like hell I can remember them all." 

Percy exhales sharply before storming from the office in a rage, having only one mission in mind. Terence looks on with worried eyes before giving his attention to the tasks before him. 

Percy doesn't make it far down the unlit hallway before his curiosity gets the best of him, and he reaches for the crumpled letter inside his robes. The fancy cursive lettering spelling out _Lucius Malfoy _loops across with ease, and Percy inspects the rest of the envelope only to find nothing. Irritably he tears it open and reads the parchment, only to find himself infuriated in a way he's never been before. As he stuffs the paper back into the pocket, he decides to attempt to exchange shifts. 

*** * ***

"I know you. You belong to Flint." 

Rae Landon gazes sharply at the young woman now standing before her. A woman she recognises as Marie Amitri--whom Lucius Malfoy fancies. Upon closer inspection, Rae realises why the malicious warlord lusts after this Ravenclaw. Marie could catch the fancy of any bloke; she radiates beauty. While her hair is soft as silk, with a shining brilliance about it, Rae's is a bland brown with dry ends. While Marie's eyes are a sparkling coffee, Rae's are an empty blue. Both young women are of average height with a small physique. 

"I belong to nobody!" Rae snaps. 

Marie tilts her head; her eyes lazily look over Rae, who wears her Death Eater robes proudly. "Are you sure? Or are you just too afraid to admit it?" She closes her eyes softly, remembering back to the time she observed Flint striking Rae for reasons unknown. 

"Marcus does not control my life!" she replies through gritted teeth. 

"I believe he does." Marie smirks, finding sadistic joy in her next words. "Why else would Pucey be _sneaking _into your quarters late in the evenings? Clearwater has seen him, and so has the Weasley. You like to think that you are better than the rest of us. But you fear Marcus. You'd never admit it, but he owns you." 

Rae glances up, biting her tongue as another Death Eater enters the stone chambers. "What is it, Weasley?" she hisses, tilting her head towards the intruder. She's never been fond of the red-haired family--they are a disgrace to the wizarding world. One such as he should never have become a Death Eater. 

"Where's Flint?" he enquires coldly. 

Rae shrugs. "I don't keep him on a leash. His business is none of mine." 

"Pity." Percy rolls his eyes. 

"You may not keep him on a leash, but he certainly keeps you on one." 

Percy smirks, mildly amused at Marie's comment. "Oh, and Landon? You're not afraid of that fucking troll, are you? Try telling him you've been shagging his best mate for years. I guarantee then that you'll have something to fear." He twists on his heel, continuing his search for Flint. 

*** * ***

Ten sets of footsteps echo through the vast marble chamber as five wizards stoically enter, three clad in impressionable robes of dull silver, one in vivid jade, and the other sea blue. The centre wizard, who is a few inches shorter than the rest, removes his hood to speak to the assembled delegates. As he does, long black hair falls over his face, covering his sunken blue eyes. A hushed silence comes over the chamber as they observe the spectacle before them. With a fresh battle scar jagged from his right eye to his jaw, he parts his chapped lips. 

"What course of actions have you taken to aid Britain?" 

"What, no introductions?" 

"Who are you to enter and make demands on us?" 

"We are the heroes. Now, what do you intend to do about Britain?" 

"We have called this meeting of the Ministers to decide just that. What business is it of yours? We haven't heard about another faction against the Death Eaters," the Minister whose country is determined by the eagle emblem before a flag of red, white and blue on the left lapel of his robes, speaks freely and without consequence. "You seem to be nothing but a mongrel." 

"I once called that land home." 

"Then why should we listen to you? A lot of people call that land home," a curvy woman speaks, a French accent lacing her voice. She is dressed in a hue of ivory with a scarlet cage, and silver hair hangs to her waist, shading brown eyes. 

"Because we said so. And you may find our knowledge and power helpful in this time of great need," the green wizard rasps, crossing his arms lazily as he closes his tired eyes for well-needed rest. 

"Don't speak to us about power; you were the ones who ran when your country needed you the most. As far as we are concerned, you all are cowards!" The Minister of Ireland, clad in clover green robes, leans back in his chair. The identities of these wizards may not be known to any of them, but he is quick to judge. 

"You don't know who you're talking to. We are the ones who fought, the ones who put our lives on the line for the good of Britain. Show the respect you would show to Albus Dumbledore, if he were still with us." 

"You can't compare that egotistical tosser," the Irish Minister points an accusing finger to the centre wizard, the only one who dared to show his identity, "to someone as great as Dumbledore." The fact that these five escaped holds no meaning to him. 

"Zat wizard you speak so unpleasantly about 'as been compared to Albus Dumbledore on more zan one occasion. Only a 'andful of wizards or witches 'ave come up against Voldemort and lived. Zat is ze only reason you should listen to us," the blue witch expresses, her voice sweet as honey. 

There's a momentary hush over the chamber as the name Voldemort is heard. 

The American Minister scoffs, pounding his fists onto the circular wooden table, around which more than thirty Ministers from across the world converge. "Are we going to listen to these children!? These . . . _people_ who come into our chambers, as if they own the party!? I say we boot them!" 

"Boot them!" 

"Yeah! Boot them!" 

There is a sudden uproar in the highly structured room as some pound their fists along with the American Minister, while the others attempt at silence. The green wizard clears his throat loudly. "Is this helping Britain?" 

They immediately hush. 

"That's better," the centre wizard starts. "Now, we are strongly suggesting that you listen to us, but if you wish to fight blindly, that is your problem. We know things, we are capable of gathering inside information, which I guarantee you will find helpful. Lucius Malfoy is powerful and not a fool. He has Death Eaters infiltrating your countries as we speak, and there are more of them than you know. They are formidable, fearless and bloodthirsty creatures. The only way to take them down is to work from the inside of their operations. It's dangerous, and lives will be lost. But the price of peace is death. If you want to free Britain from Death Eater rule, I suggest you work with us." 

They look around at one another, and at the wizards before them. A few lick their lips in contemplation; others rest their elbows on the tables and chins in their hands. Together, though, they are silent. 

The wizards at the front glance at their leader before turning in sequence. The witch in blue exits, followed by the wizard in green. The two unidentified ones in grey depart a few moments later. Lastly, the head wizard spins on his heel, his hair whipping away from his face. 

Thirty pairs of eyes fall upon the wizard as he exits. 

And they start in another uproar, this one of newfound hope in these strange allies. 

*** * ***

"Flint!" 

Marcus Flint cocks his head to the side, his lip curling in hatred at the sight before him. "What the fuck do you want, Weasley?" he spits as he immediately stands, preferring the authority that he'd have. Intimidating is what this ex-Quidditch captain does best. 

"You're on guard duty next week." Percy knows never to ask questions to this Slytherin, for it shows uncertainty, and Marcus would surely act upon it. 

"Point?" 

"Switch sectors with me." 

Marcus merely laughs rhythmically, thick black hair falling before his equally black eyes. "And deprive you from the _luxury _of seeing your family? I wouldn't dream it. Are you prepared to grovel for their forgiveness? Will you cry? Oh, I'd like that. I'd _love_ to see you cry." 

Percy remains unfaltering. "You want to see someone cry? Talk to Landon late at night." He turns and leaves as quickly as he came, not caring to explain his words to the dense troll. 


	7. Chapter Six : Truths

**Chapter Six : Truths**  
  
  
  
"Does it ever get easier?"  
  
Gene Avery glances at Percy Weasley before focusing his attention back towards the grounds, which are covered with dried mud or blood. "Never. You think it would, but you come in here every day just to see that nothing has changed from the night before. It's sickening, that's what it is. To see what the Death Eaters, people like us, do to these prisoners. Finding someone strung up on a pillar, disembowelled and dead. Or worse, still alive. And knowing that maybe it was Malfoy, or Nott. Or maybe even Dolohov or Rookwood. But no matter who it was, there's nothing you can do about it because this is the behaviour that Lucius Malfoy accepts and maybe even expects."  
  
Percy doesn't reply; he doesn't know what words he should even use. They walk among a small troop of Death Eaters in a nervous silence, both staring towards the ground. Around them, prisoners wrapped in heavy cloaks or shawls warm themselves from the nippy February air before the flickering flames in rusty oil drums. Their faces are chiselled stone--emotionless, dreary and old; they've aged rapidly due to stress and fear, and all hope has been lost in these few months. Many of the families now stay together, not straying far from their assigned buildings; the only thing they now have in this desolate existence is each other.   
  
"You know what they need?" Avery breaks the silence after what seems like hours. "A boost in morale. I've considered arranging a Quidditch game, one like old times with the four Hogwarts houses rivalling. I know it's not much, but I do know a few blokes who'd be ecstatic to fly again." He glances over at Percy and is greeted by a euphoric look spreading across Percy's usually pallid face. For the first time that week, his mind is on something besides his family.  
  
"I believe you may be right, Gene."  
  
Avery smiles broadly, pleased with himself. He may be the head of the Alpha Camp, but praise is something he is not used to. He's the only Death Eater in the area with a golden heart; it's not something the guards below respect him for.  
  
"Leave it to me. I'll owl Malfoy tonight, and arrange to have the game in four months time." Percy's mind automatically wanders to three blokes who'd be perfect as the captains of Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. He doesn't even worry about convincing Lucius Malfoy of their plans; the idea of a Quidditch game would be appealing to him, and to nearly every ex-Quidditch player in the sector.   
  
Avery nods cheerfully before excusing himself, along with a small faction of guards, to continue on the piles of paperwork awaiting him in his office. A few of the Death Eaters glance up at Percy as he strays from the group, but there are none who really care. On either side of Percy are rows of prisoners, but none he can recognise, so he keeps wandering the streets with his head bowed and hands in his pockets. He walks like that for some time, his hearing serving as the only window into the outside world, until someone yanks his attention back to reality.  
  
"Oi! Weasley! It's not recommended to be wandering off on your lonesome."  
  
Percy groans, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger, warding off the headache Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey will surely bring. "Your concern is uncalled for. I wish to be on my own." Percy's voice is lifeless. He turns to leave, his shoulders slouched, not caring to deal with the two tossers who take great and sadistic satisfaction in annoying him.   
  
"Cheer up, Weasley! You're acting as though all this chaos and destruction isn't riveting!" Marcus breathes in deeply, savouring the smell and taste of blood and dust in the refreshing air. His hair is a tangled black mess, and his robes are stained with blood, muck, and sweat. It's been nearly a week since they've been on guard duty, and Percy doubts Marcus has showered at all. Percy's attitude towards Marcus as the rank troll has only been reinforced.   
  
Beside him, Adrian smirks. But, unlike Marcus, personal hygiene is something he prides himself in. His robes are crisp and new, and fasten tightly at the neck. Both Slytherins enclose Percy.  
  
"I don't get off on that, as you probably do," Percy snaps. He glances around for a way out, but finds none. People dressed in tattered robes pass them quickly; the streets are rather crowded with passing inmates who fear to be near the Death Eaters.   
  
"You mean you don't return to your bitch in the evening filled with a sense of exhilaration that you can only get from the fact that here, you are power? You are the devastating force which all prisoners fear, and even a few of the women. It's why you became a Death Eater, after all."  
  
A look of pure disgust creeps over Percy's face, and Adrian's smirk falters. "Unlike you, I do not take satisfaction in others' misery." He turns to leave, but finds himself not moving from that spot. Before Percy realises what's going on, he's being dragged by the Slytherins, one pulling on each arm. "What do you think you are doing!?" Percy struggles against Marcus and Adrian, but to no avail. Marcus, with his brawny physique, is much larger than the Gryffindor.  
  
"We decided not to put off the inevitable!" Adrian laughs, leading Percy unknowingly to the Weasleys' living area, Building Theta. Around them, people stop to gawk, but they quickly carry on with their business after Marcus shoots them warning glances.  
  
All colour drains from Percy. "You wouldn't dare!" He glares furiously at Adrian, eyes aflame with hatred. He knows that he has something on Pucey, something that he would never want Marcus to find out.  
  
"Oh?" Marcus snorts.  
  
But Adrian stops short and releases Percy. "Marcus, maybe we shouldn't?" But he never notices that they have successfully dragged Percy close to Building Theta, and that the fiery red hair and Death Eater robes will not be overlooked.  
  
"Get your fucking balls outta the jar you keep them in, Pucey!" Marcus barks, shoving Percy forward and shooting a glare at Adrian. "What the fuck do you have to be scared of? Not like this little wanker has anything on you." He raises an eyebrow to Adrian, crossing his arms.  
  
"What? No. No! It's . . . just . . ."  
  
"It's just you've grown a fucking conscience? Fuck, Pucey, you're a disgrace!"  
  
Adrian remains silent, staring Marcus squarely in the eyes.  
  
"Just sod off! I have better things I could be doing than arguing with you . . . you women!" Marcus exhales sharply, nostril flaring as he sneers inwardly at the two. He furiously stalks away, not caring that the stares of the fellow Death Eaters and prisoners are burning into him.  
  
"At least you haven't sacrificed your intelligence," Percy replies.  
  
Adrian growls, "I'm only looking out for myself. You think I don't know what would happen to me, or even Rae, if Marcus found out? I'm not a prat. I know Marcus will kill me and pound on her. I was a fool to fall in love with the bint, and even more of a fool when I let Flint take her from me in our seventh year. But, what Flint will never know is that, in the end, I still got her." He diverts his attention to the ground.  
  
Percy frowns and considers placing a comforting hand on Adrian's shoulder, but he decides against it. He and Adrian are still considered to be mortal rivals. No little emotion from either side could ever change that. No matter how human Percy may think it is, he would never treat Pucey as a friend. "It's none of my business who you love, Pucey. But you should have never let me find out about Landon. Because if you ever try to pull another stunt like that, I will tell Flint."   
  
Adrian eyes Percy up and down before placing his hands back into his pockets. He shrugs and doesn't reply as he walks off in the same direction as Flint, leaving Percy alone to reconsider his choice on the Slytherin captain of the Quidditch team, and knowing fully that this day can only get worse from this point on.   
  
*** * * **  
  
When Charlie Weasley's eyes meet with Percy's, his mouth drops open, and there is nothing he can do about his other siblings following his gaze. The sight of Percy as a Death Eater is not something shocking to the eldest Weasley son, for during the battle which determined the victor, Charlie had personally seen his younger brother clad in those infamous robes, performing a spell not even Charlie thought Percy could have mastered.  
  
Oliver Wood, who has been spending most of his time with the Weasleys, is the only one gawking with a smile plastered across his face, and eyes blinking incredulously. He leaps from where he's seated, which is between the twins, only to crush Percy in a tight hug, while the Weasleys look on with a mixture of pure hatred and astonishment. Fred drags George to his feet, and they stand next to Charlie, just staring. They're not too sure what else they should be doing. George coldly turns to leave, but Fred grabs him by the wrist, pulling him back.   
  
"Oi! Oliver, I can't breathe!"  
  
Oliver unwillingly releases Percy. "Avery, that bloody tosser, told me you were dead!" He places his hands warmly on Percy's shoulders, his deep brown eyes sparkling at the thought that one of his best mates, no matter what robes he wears, is alive.   
  
Percy flushes a deep shade of crimson, avoiding eye contact with his family. "Yeah, I didn't think that a reunion would be this . . . well, I never thought you'd be this happy to see me."   
  
But that happiness is not contagious.   
  
The others stand around, not knowing how to react. They could be ecstatic, as Oliver, or suspicious, as Fred and George. Here stands their brother, Hogwarts Head Boy and former Ministry employee, dressed in Death Eater robes. Avada Kedavra was performed from his wand, killing people that they can only imagine.  
  
Ron approaches rapidly, storming from the building where he has observed the exchange. His arms are crossed, and he has a stony expression across his face. It's extremely difficult to find the words to describe how he's feeling at the sight of a Weasley in Death Eater robes. "Bloody hell! You. have. some. fucking. nerve! You're a Weasley--how can you wear those robes! How dare you, Percy? How fucking _dare_ you!"   
  
Ron's fists convulse with suppressed rage that he has never felt before, not even for someone like Draco Malfoy. "You fought with _them_! With those who conspired to imprison us in these internment camps, those who killed our parents and Harry!" Ron, who is nearly the same height as Percy but more muscular, violently grabs him at the collar of his crisp robes, heaving him towards the cement.  
  
Percy is not surprised and certainly not aggravated as he lands severely on his arse with his hands scrapping against the gravel. He keeps his gaze downwards, staring in the general direction of Oliver Wood and the other Weasleys, who have rushed forward a few steps to be next to Ron.  
  
"Get up!" Ron shrieks.  
  
By now, a small crowd has gathered, consisting of prisoners and a few scattered Death Eaters who want to see blood, particularly the Weasley killed by his own kind. All remain silent, knowing that at any moment a brawl between them could break out, as well. That is something that should be avoided at all costs, as the Death Eaters would slaughter any of those involved.  
  
"Get up and fight, you fucking coward!" He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms, dripping blood from the cracks between his fingers.  
  
Percy finally looks up, calmly stating, "I'm not going to fight you."  
  
"Why not? You must have enjoyed it before, being a Death Eater! You helped kill our friends! Our mum and dad! And you have the nerve to show up here? Whaddya expect, that we'd be overjoyed to see you? That we'd be thankful you were at least alive? You should have died valiantly like Harry instead of slithering away like a fucking lowly Slytherin!" Ron makes an attempt to pounce on Percy, but he finds himself being jerked back as Charlie grabs the hood of his robes.  
  
"Ron! Behave yourself! I'm sure Percy betrayed us for good reasons."  
  
The crowd, upon seeing that there'd be no bloodshed, irritably departed.  
  
"There's no such thing as a good reason to join the Death Eaters."  
  
"Stay out of this, Fred."  
  
"Why? He's our brother too!"  
  
Charlie extends his hand, dragging Percy, who thanks him quietly, to his feet. "It's good to see you, Perce, although circumstances could have been better. Don't mind those prats, they have yet to understand that blood is thicker than water." He turns to Ron, arms around Percy's shoulder. "If I had reacted this way when I saw our brother clad in those robes, I would have killed him then and there. But I didn't. Because he's our brother."  
  
Ron's mouth drops open. "You knew! You knew all along and you never told us!"  
  
Before Charlie can even think of replying, Ron has stormed off. The twins, not caring to talk to their brother, have also headed to the inside of the building they are forced to call home.   
  
Percy glances around, accounting for all Weasleys except the youngest. "Where's Ginny?" There's a slight panic to his voice that Charlie smiles at. He does still care for them, although they fought on opposite sides of the war.  
  
"She went for a walk this morning with Hermione. It's a good thing too."  
  
"Good thing?" Percy snaps. "What is that supposed to mean?" He seats himself on the drab stairs, cold to the touch, and grey. Everything in the camps seems to be grey: the buildings, the grounds, some of the prisoners, and even the sky on days such as this one. Grey to match the emotions of those who were once valiant and pure.   
  
"For her to see you like this . . ."  
  
"As a Death Eater?"  
  
"You betrayed us!"  
  
Percy glares at Charlie. "You don't even know the half of it!"  
  
"Believe me, I do Percy. But I'm not going to thank you for what you sold your soul for. I know everything comes at a price, but you must ask yourself if it was all worth it." Charlie surveys Percy with a solemn look, frowning.   
  
Percy is shocked by Charlie's words, but he doesn't bother to delve deeper into their meaning.   
  
"Listen, Perce, you are still my brother. Nothing can ever change that." And before Percy has the chance to respond, Charlie leaves the two old mates alone.  
  
Oliver frowns as his eyes meet Percy's. "I suppose you shouldn't have expected them to be as happy to see you as I was."  
  
"Oliver, I thought they were going to kill me. I never wanted to come here. Bloody hell, I wouldn't have if it wasn't for Flint and Pucey." Percy shrugs, and they begin walking along the lines in a futile attempt to stay warm.  
  
Oliver curls his lip in disgust at the name Flint. Back in Hogwarts, they were rivals on the Pitch as well as in the halls. "Don't tell me you're mates with those two." And he's thankful that Percy hastily shakes his head. "So, why'd you do it? Join with them, of all people, I mean."  
  
"For a chance at power?" Percy shrugs, knowing that power wasn't all of it. He wanted greatness. "I've asked myself that question a million times, but I was never able to find the answer. It wasn't until I talked to a higher-up that I finally realised why I'm here." He pauses, rubbing his hands together for a source of heat before placing them back into his pockets. "I'm here to save them, my family. Lucius was going to slaughter them, but then… something changed."  
  
"Like?"  
  
Percy smiles. "That's not important."   



	8. Chapter Seven : Choices

**Chapter Seven : Choices**  
  
  
  
"Quidditch?"   
  
"Bloody 'ell, you're off your rocker."  
  
"Malfoy will never allow it, Weasley."  
  
"Shut up, Flint." Oliver shoots an icy glare at Marcus before drawing his attention back towards Percy, at whom he gapes in stunned silence. But, it's not long after that Oliver believes what Marcus and Michael expressed is the truth. "Percy ... seriously, are you off your rocker?" He glances around with wide brown eyes, not daring to get his hopes up at ever flying again. Those dreams were killed along with nearly every other member of the Regime Alliance in June of 1998.   
  
"I know it's not much, but Gene and I both believe that this just may be what some of the wizards and witches need. A little time in the air -- a little while to forget where they are and what has happened to them." Percy swallows dryly as his eyes dart from Michael Corner to Roger Davies to Marcus Flint and back to Oliver Wood. All four ex-Quidditch captains form a semi-circle around him, shifting uncomfortably away from each other, but most particularly away from Marcus.   
  
Marcus' lip curls in disgust at this act of kindness from the Death Eater who doesn't seem to understand that he's not supposed to care about the people in the camps. "That is the most repulsive thing I have ever heard. Why would you want to give those people a chance at happiness?" He crosses his arms and leans back in his black marble chair. Marcus has a tendency to believe that everything he ever says will always be right.   
  
"Because we're not you?" Oliver snaps, clenching his fists at his side. With the two rivals together in the simple chamber, the air seems to hang thickly. Nothing decorates these walls, save for the horrid olive wallpaper, which Avery personally selected.   
  
"Just shut up, the both of you. We're not at Hogwarts anymore, this rivalry is irrelevant. Bloody hell, grow up and change with the times," Roger Davies grumbles as he idly twirls his black hair with his left hand. A thin golden band on his left ring finger glimmers through the dust from the sunlight that filters into the room.   
  
"Listen, Davies. You're gonna get fucking panned if you don't shut your mouth." Marcus glares at the ex-Ravenclaw captain with hatred alive in his black eyes. "Bloody hell, if it's a means putting you three sodding gits back into your rows, let's have this bloody Quidditch match!"  
  
"You could try, Flint. Or have you forgotten that you have lost against Gryffindor more times than I can even remember?" Oliver scoffs, gazing at Marcus with a cold eye. If there were anything he considered himself to be better than Flint at, it was Quidditch.   
  
"If it wasn't for ..." Roger mournfully shakes his head.  
  
"That fucking nancy-boy won't be around to save your arses this time!" Flint spat the words at the three rivals, knowing where Roger was going with that sentence. Potter may have been an asset in Quidditch, but he failed when they needed him the most...   
  
"So maybe you'll win this game. Ain't that right, Flint? Bloody hell, maybe you would've stood a chance to clobber us while we were still at Hogwarts if you weren't so shallow." Oliver shakes his head, but smiles broadly. "Kicking Bletchley from the team because he bagged your bird, then giving the boot to Higgs for a few extra galleons and a set of brooms. You never looked out for the team, just yourself. Slytherin may have had the brooms and the brawn, but they lack the brains and the skill. Always will."  
  
Marcus scowls at Oliver, mentally dreaming of ways to flay the annoying young Scotsman. "You pick the bloody Pitch, and I will certainly see you on it. I'll fucking show you that we had the balls to pound you, and still do. Besides, what I do with my team is none of your business. Fuck, Wood, you're always sticking your brown-nose where it doesn't belong."  
  
Oliver stands to address Marcus. "You've got the balls, do you? You wanna take this outside and settle for once and all who is the bigger man?" Oliver's heart hammers as he bunches his fists in rage. Many times he and Marcus met over a battlefield that wasn't the Quidditch Pitch. And most times, both came off bruised and battered.   
  
Marcus jumps to his feet, instantly seizing Oliver by the collars of his crimson robes. He sneers, shoving Oliver relentlessly towards the other two captains. Crossing his arms, he silently dares Oliver to react.   
  
Percy hastily grabs Oliver's wrist, yanking him back before he has a chance to retaliate. "Take your differences to the Pitch and only the Pitch." And with those words, both Oliver and Marcus reluctantly take their seats. "Now to get back to business. Gene, Lucius, and myself will arrange everything. All you need to worry about is getting a good team together by mid-May."  
  
"I don't remember agreeing to that, Weasley," comes a lone voice from the far corner of the room. Percy recognises the voice as that of Lucius Malfoy, and it's confirmed when Lucius stands, removing his hood to show his presence.  
  
"Mister Malfoy. How nice of you to join us," Marcus sneers, regarding Lucius with arrogantly. "Are you seriously going to let Weasley arrange this? Bloody hell, it was probably his bitch that thought of it. Boosting morale. Of all the sacrilegious things I've heard..."  
  
"Do not talk ill of Penelope, Flint," Percy advises Marcus with an icy tone. His eyes narrow with contempt towards the fellow Death Eater; Penelope is the only woman besides his deceased mother who Percy actually respects. And, because of that, he is willing to defend her in any way. "Besides, it's not Penelope who takes to someone else's bed."   
  
"At least Flint can get a shag from a decent woman, Weasley," Lucius remarks, sitting next to the redhead. He glances at the Quidditch captains, his eyes remaining on them for several moments. It causes all but Marcus to nervously shift their weight or crack their knuckles as they gaze around the chamber.   
  
"I would never consider Landon a respectable woman," Oliver states wryly, remembering back to his days at Hogwarts when most of the Slytherin and even a few Gryffindors bragged about shagging her. But then, in her sixth year, Rae did something others never expected her to ever do -- she started to date Adrian Pucey, actually caring for him, not what he could do for her. Needless to say, Marcus always acquires what he wants, and he wanted Rae since his seventh year.   
  
"At least her blood is pure."  
  
Oliver flashes a superior grin towards Marcus. "But we can hardly say the same about you. Right, Flint?"  
  
"Shut up, Ollie." Percy swallows the forming lump in his throat, not giving a second thought to his words before he notices all five pairs of eyes are on him.   
  
"Ollie!?" Marcus snorts. "You actually have a pet name for that fucking puppy? You gonna start balling him now, too!? I bet he's just gagging for it!" Marcus regards Oliver and Percy, appalled, wondering why he never saw it before--they'd be perfect for each other. A nauseating thought it is.   
  
"Why does any conversation with you end up being about sex or death?"  
  
Michael, who has been gawking absent-mindedly around the chamber, decides now is the perfect time to join in on this conversation. With his hands resting beneath his thighs, hugging the freezing chair, his indigo eyes widen with interest. "Well, this one bit I shagged... Pure-blooded, and she was also older." He seems proud of this feat.  
  
"I can smell innocence, purity and ... strawberries ... all over you, Corner." Marcus wrinkles his nose in disgust, turning away from the fifteen year old. "You're still a virgin." The troll genes do have their advantage; Marcus's sense of smell is superior to that of a normal human's.   
  
"If you wish, Flint, you could send Landon over. I'm sure she'd be willing to give poor, naïve Michael some ... some ... hands on experience," Oliver comments sarcastically as he glances over at Percy, who averts his eyes, stifling a laugh.   
  
Marcus remains silent as he jolts to his feet, the chair loudly clattering to the stone floor. He aims his wand at Oliver, daring the Gryffindor to speak badly about his woman again.  
  
"Sit down, Flint," Lucius says boredly as he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs lazily. "I suggest we attend to the business at hand; I have other matters and people that need my attention. And, if I understood correctly Weasley, you have a Mudblood waiting in her chambers for you."   
  
"So the Sex Ed. is over?" Michael pouts, dropping his shoulders abruptly.  
  
"It was never supposed to begin. Listen first, and then you can go back to each other's throats. You have two months to get your teams together by the means of owl post or direct conversation. Now, bugger off before I reconsider this whole event." While the four captains leisurely leave, Percy's eyes remain fixed upon the stone floor. He only brings them forward when Lucius strides by. "Lucius. A moment, if you will?"  
  
"Weasley?"  
  
"If I hear you refer to Penelope Clearwater as a Mudblood again, I will kill you."  
  
"Kill me and you will lose power. My Death Eaters would tear you apart if my blood were to stain your hands. With my word, they would do it now. But I am a reasonable man, Weasley. And you are no fool." And with that, Lucius swiftly departs; he leaves Percy to hope that, in the end, everything will be worth it and it's what he truly wants.   
  
*** * ***  
  
"Penelope?"  
  
"I have nothing to say to you, Percival. Please, leave me be."  
  
There's a wounded look in Percy's eyes, and he takes a seat next to Penelope on her feather-mattress bed. Cobalt silk sheets rest beneath them, matching the silver fabric wallpaper in Penelope's private chambers. Percy moves a bit closer when Penelope shifts away, and takes her hand gently with his. "Penelope, please listen to me. In the month I've spent at Alpha without you, I've had the chance to think. I almost lost my family for the actions I've taken, and I am not prepared to lose you as well..."  
  
Penelope stands, her eyes brimming with a fiery determination for freedom. "You'd keep me here as a prisoner? Forcing me into everything that you want me to do? I am not an object to be controlled, Weasley, so do not treat me as one. I thought we discussed this. Or have you started to ignore everything I say?"  
  
"Penelope, I love you and want you to be happy, but I refuse to let you walk out of my life." He pauses, dragging himself to his feet and taking the Ravenclaw in his arms. He runs his hand through her soft hair, stopping at her delicate neck to draw her closer, pressing his lips tenderly to hers. She refuses to kiss him back.  
  
"You cannot have both. Why can't you understand that?" Penelope closes her weary azure eyes, melting into Percy's strong hold. "If I had known this was what we would come to, I never would have let myself fall in love with you. Look at what you've become." She's prepared herself for the worse--to leave Percy one way or another.   
  
Percy sighs, arriving at a decision he's thought about but never wanted to come to pass. "What is it you want, Penelope? Freedom? The chance to see your family and friends again?" Placing his hands on her shoulders, he takes a step back to look her in the eye. "Fine. You can have it. You can have it all and more. You can enter and leave the castle and any of the camps spanned across Britain as you wish. I will always be here waiting for you." And he can only hope she will eventually return.   
  
Penelope's eyes dance with a look of hope that grows with each new breath. "You have nothing to fear, Percy. I will always be faithful. And I thank you for what you have sacrificed for my happiness. You may not know it now, but it means more to me than anything else in this world."   
  
As Percy takes a seat on her bed, she smiles coyly, only one thought running through her mind--how much she loves Percy. Not the withdrawn boy she knew at Hogwarts, but the man he could have become only through pain, loss, and sorrow.   
  
*** * ***  
  
Penelope packs a small bag and leaves early that March evening, only five hours after Percy gave her the total freedom to come and go as she pleases. It's a foggy Sunday morning when Penelope arrives in Camp Delta, and Travers is serving as her escort to a Mister Roger Davies, an old and dear friend. As she walks among the lines with the aged Death Eater, prisoners glare at her with distaste. She hardly recognises any of them; the ones she does remember were old mates or acquaintances at Hogwarts, but she doesn't bother to stop for unnecessary chitchat.  
  
"This way, ma'am." Travers leads Penelope through a crowd of guards and inmates towards a shabby building. He is an old Death Eater with grey hair and dull lifeless eyes; any inmate could easily take this guard out of commission.   
  
Penelope chews on her lower lip, following Travers into the building. For being an important witch in the castle, she's starting to feel like an everyday, run-of-the-mill prisoner.  
  
"Weasley has arranged for you to stay here as long as you wish."  
  
Penelope nods and watches Travers join a group of Death Eaters outside, continuing his rounds. She glances awkwardly around the building, still not believing that this . . . hovel . . . is where Malfoy and the others placed a family as honourable as the Davies's. Their only mistake was siding with the Regime Alliance. But, around here, that's everyone's mistake.  
  
Penelope's only mistake was not helping when she should have.  
  
"Miss Clearwater?"  
  
Penelope takes on a cheerful expression as her eyes meet those apple green ones of Roger Davies. "There is no need for formalities, Roger." She smiles; she and Roger have been mates for as long as she can remember. The Davieses are old friends of the family.   
  
Roger nods politely, bowing slightly at the waist. "It's been a while, Penny. I wasn't too sure if I'd ever see you again. Those Death Eaters refused to tell me if you, or anyone else I inquired about, was still alive. And, from what I understood from Travers, you are well. The lady of a Death Eater. I must say, it's an honour for one of those blokes to want you. But Percy doesn't realise that he is the lucky one." When he steps from the shadows, Penelope can see his dark navy robes are brand new, and his coal black hair is washed but still listless. It falls straight just at his ears, and his fringe rests above his eyes.   
  
"Must we dwell on such matters? I came here to get away from all that," Penelope replies, her voice wooden and distant. She glances around the bland building, grimy and without any furniture. It was once a boarding house for runaway Muggle teenagers. Names of past loves are carved into the walls, and Penelope's heart aches when she realise that most of those young lovers are probably long since dead.  
  
"I understand."  
  
Penelope smiles. "So how is Fleur?"   
  
Roger frowns at the memory of a lost love, remaining silent. While Roger was still attending Hogwarts, he and Fleur were the best of friends and eventually became lovers. Both joined the alliance once Roger had graduated in 1996, but only Roger was found alive. Fleur's body was never recovered; many thought she had been blown to pieces. An empty coffin rests in her grave.   
  
"Oh. I'm so sorry."  
  
"We've all suffered losses." Roger's voice quivers, and he adjusts the golden band on his ring finger. "But that is the past. Only the future should matter." But Roger can't help but be a hypocrite, for every night he lives in the past, dreaming of a second chance he's certain he will never receive.   
  
Penelope nods in agreement. "It is best not to live in the past."   
  
"Right. So we should look to the present, and to the future." He pauses and begins to pace back and forth, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. He appears to have something on his mind. "There's something I must ask you. As you may very well know, there is to be a Quidditch match in a few months."  
  
"Yes. I don't see how this concerns me."  
  
"I'm trying to round up the old team, the best we had while at Hogwarts. And you have skill, Penelope, you always have. I would like you to be my Keeper for Ravenclaw."  
  
Penelope gawks at Roger in disbelief, but she declines. "I can't, because . . ." She trails off, unable to find a reason to justify her refusal. But she should have known a simple no was not good enough for Roger.  
  
"Why not? Don't you want this chance to fly with the team again?"  
  
"I have flown, Roger. On many teams. It would mean nothing to me."  
  
"But, there's flying, and then there's _flying_!"  
  
"And I have no need to soar with a bunch of arrogant snakes just to be happy!"  
  
Roger wrings his hands, obviously frustrated beyond words at her stubbornness. "You've always been persistent, ever since I've known you. It's a virtue I respect. But, unfortunately, I am just as determined to have you as _my _Keeper."  
  
"Why does it matter?" Penelope asks, as she feels her walls breaking.  
  
"Because I promised myself, and another, that I'd have you on the team."   



	9. Chapter Eight : House Gatherings

**Chapter Eight : House Gatherings**  
  
  
  
**Slytherin. March 3, 2000**  
  
  
"Quidditch?" Adrian snorts as he watches Marcus post a try-out notice to the castle's stone wall. He stares at it for several seconds, noticing that the sheet called for only two Chasers. "I hope you know that I expect to be a Chaser, so you'll only need one more. And, someone close to you is going to expect to be a Beater."  
  
Marcus shrugs, not caring that Adrian was one of the best during their Hogwarts days. There are thousands of other potential Chasers out there; there must be someone better than Adrian, if that is possible; Adrian's talents match Marcus's. "You can try out like the rest of them. Doesn't mean you'll be on the team; I'm looking for the best of the best. Must show Wood that Slytherin has always had the brawn, brains, skill, and brooms to kick their fucking pansy-asses. Either that, or I'll be shoving my broomstick so far up his arse so that Weasley won't be fucking him for months."  
  
"That's an . . . image. A really_ fucking. scary_. image." Adrian shakes his head, turning only to see that a line-up of old, young, and women has already formed behind them, filling the castle corridor with nearly thirty Slytherins. Pulling on the sleeve of Marcus' black robes, he cocks his head towards the many Death Eaters.  
  
Marcus's lip curls as he bellows, "No one over forty; no one under eighteen; and," he scans the crowd, his eyes falling to the young lady he's close to, "no fucking women!" He leaves Adrian without a word of goodbye, hastily parting through the crowd towards the female. Rae jumps slightly as Marcus's hand grips her shoulder tightly, shaking her with furiousness. "What do you think you're doing here?"  
  
"I thought I'd try out for the team," Rae states calmly, staring Marcus in the eyes.   
  
"You thought? I don't recall giving you permission to think!" Marcus pulls her aside, away from all prying eyes. "I don't even remember telling you that you could stray from your chambers!" He speaks in a hushed tone, and from afar, Adrian watches with solemn eyes.  
  
"So, besides being your property, I have to listen to what you say as well?"  
  
"Yes!" Marcus replies, wondering how this could be so confusing to her.  
  
"Like _that'll _ever happen," Rae mumbles beneath her breath.   
  
*** * ***  
  
**Gryffindor. March 18, 2000**  
  
  
"And you're saying that Percy arranged all this?" Fred sits cross-legged on the dark scarlet rug of Building Theta, his head angled awkwardly towards Oliver Wood, who stands among the five sitting Weasleys.   
  
"This is just a new way for them to kill us! How could you have agreed to this? What were you thinking!? Bloody hell, we'll be lucky if we can walk off of the bloody Pitch!" George glances at his other half, of who has fixed his gaze to the ground again. It seems to serve as a better entertainment source than the possibility of flying.  
  
"It'll be safer than staying here. Even if it is for only a day," Oliver counters, knowing that they are less likely to be killed while flying than by a couple of Death Eaters who were serving their own amusement.  
  
Fred snorts in agreement, pulling his cloak tighter.  
  
"Listen, we'll get clobbered without my two best Beaters, and I'm looking for a great Seeker. Do you, ah, know one?" Oliver exhales sharply, glancing over in Charlie's general direction. The Weasleys never caught the sarcasm laced in his voice.  
  
"Charlie used to be Seeker in his day," Ron suggests helpfully, flashing the broad Weasley trademark grin at his usefulness. "A damn good one, too!"   
  
Oliver shakes his head, laughing. "That's what I was getting at!"  
  
Charlie automatically glances up at the sound of his name. "What can I do for you, Oliver?" He stands, brushing the dust and crinkles from his robes that settled as he sat on the crude black sofa, the only piece of furniture decorating the scarce living room.  
  
"Playing as Seeker in the game is what you can do for me, Charlie."  
  
"What game?"  
  
"Quidditch. Must have the best. Especially if we intend to win."  
  
"Count me in. Who else do you have?"  
  
"Katie Bell as one of the Chasers. I may have another Chaser lined up, Natalie McDonald, but she needs to get back to me." Oliver studies his paper. He has six weeks to find two other Chasers and get his team ready for the day.  
  
*** * ***  
  
**Ravenclaw. April 6, 2000**  
  
  
"You can't be serious!"  
  
"Why does everyone I come to ask me that?"  
  
"Because you can't be serious, Penelope."  
  
"I am, Cho. The game is in four weeks, and we desperately need a Seeker who can rival the skills of Charlie Weasley, Michael Corner, and Malfoy," Penelope spits the last name with a venomous distaste, crossing her arms over her chest briskly.  
  
Cho stalls, biting her lower lip as her deep brown eyes dart around her small chambers. They fall upon artwork of Chinese exorcism masks, and she speaks without taking her eyes from the family heirloom. "I don't know . . . Draco's a Seeker. He may not be happy that I would be flying against him."  
  
"Fuck Malfoy!"  
  
"Already have."   
  
"I really did not need to know that."  
  
Cho ignores Penelope's words, and continues the thought with a blissful look about her. "Damn, he was a real fucking animal in bed. Now I know why he was named Draco. And believe me, Penelope, he has done more than he would ever need to do to earn that name."  
  
"Cho! Fuck, that's disgusting! I don't tell you what Percy's like in bed!"   
  
"Maybe you should."  
  
"Miss Chang! Mind your thoughts. I'm sure Malfoy wouldn't be too happy if I broke your jaw! God only knows it is your best asset." Penelope narrows her eyes with disdain, sick at the thought of Draco and Cho together. It's not something a modest girl would ever gossip about. Cho's shoulders drop in disappointment, and Penelope continues. "I am here to discuss Quidditch, not sex. Are you on the team, or am I just wasting my time?"   
  
Cho ponders on this thought for several minutes before she nods her head. "Draco doesn't keep me on a leash as Flint does Landon. Count me in!"  
  
*** * *  
  
Hufflepuff. April 21, 2000  
**   
  
"Okay team. This is it. The big one!"  
  
"I know this speech, you stole it from Wood!" Justin Finch-Fletchley scoffs, rolling his baby blue eyes. He sits among the six other players of the Hufflepuff team, awaiting their last practice before the game in just two weeks. Their locker room is a sickly yellow and a dark black; it hasn't been used in a couple years and the smell of dried blood from their fallen comrades at their last moments of freedom is quite nauseating.   
  
"Point? I stole a lot of things from people older than meself!" Michael declares, patting himself twice on his chest proudly. For being so young, his ego has been inflated beyond of that of a twenty year old.   
  
"Michael, I doubt you shagged that bit," another one of the Chasers voices.  
  
"She told me she loved me! Mind you, she called me Adrian and fed me a potion . . . But that's not the point! I stole her from that Death Eater bastard, she just doesn't realise it yet. But, that's not the point either . . . This is it, team! The big one! The one we've all been waiting for!"  
  
The Hufflepuff team broke out into a chorus of laughter that didn't end for hours.   
  
*** * *  
  
Slytherin. May 11, 2000  
**   
  
"You need another Beater for Quidditch, Marcus."  
  
"Leland Derrick is an excellent player. We can get by with only one." Marcus's hands land on Rae's shoulders, shoving her onto his bed with an extreme force. The mattress is firm, and silken army green sheets are spread chaotically across. Marcus's chambers are exceptionally different from the women's; silver shackles adorn the otherwise barren walls, and the place has a military air about it.  
  
"Leland may be wonderful, but so am I!" Rae runs her slender fingers through Marcus' thick hair as his hands slip into her robes and rip the fabric in an attempt to remove them faster.   
  
"The things you are great at have no place on the Quidditch field."  
  
"How can you be so stubborn?" Rae rolls her eyes as Marcus pulls her on top of him. She moves slightly to the right in an attempt to get away, but his stubbornness is not wavering in any field. He holds her tightly, pressing his lips to hers before she pulls away.  
  
"I don't want you to get hurt in a way that I'm not responsible for."  
  
"Marcus, I am a great Beater! I learnt from the best!"  
  
"Who's the best?" Marcus scoffs.   
  
"Fred and George Weasley."  
  
"Now I really won't let you onto my team."  
  
At that rejection, Rae immediately removes herself from Marcus, much to his annoyance. "Fine. Two can play at this game. You won't let me onto your team; I won't have sex with you. Ever again." She crawls from the disordered bed, wrapping a thin sheet around her naked form. Glaring at Marcus, Rae watches as he just lies there, not believing that she's serious.  
  
"You think I care if you consent to what you have coming to you?"  
  
"That's rape," Rae states matter-of-factly.  
  
"And you'd be the victim. Now get the fuck back here before you regret it."  
  
"No. You don't seem to understand that I'm not your bloody sex slave. I don't listen to your every command. All I'm asking for is a chance to play Quidditch, like you never let me at Hogwarts." Rae stares at the ivory ceiling, letting the sheet drop slightly at her shoulders, revealing cleavage. She hears Marcus shift in the bed and groan, but she doesn't look his way.   
  
"If I give the position to you, will you come back to bed?"  
  
"Of course I will."   
  
"Fine, you can be a Beater. But you owe me for this. And you better not bugger it up--I have a lot riding on this game." He rolls over effortlessly, falling from the bed in the process. Standing before her, he slowly starts to undo his robes and smirks. "Now. Get on your knees."  
  
*** * *  
  
The Last Alliance. May 12, 2000   
**   
  
A large snowy owl glides through the air, landing elegantly upon the windowsill of a large French mansion. Tapping its beak three times on the glass, she flutters her wings and hoots loudly. Almost immediately, a wizard clad in jade robes stands to retrieve the parchment tied to the owl's claw. She gives a thankful nip on the wizard's ear, and he shoos the bird away, annoyed. Unwrapping the letter with careful ease, he silently reads it as the other five members of the Last Alliance, the only known wizards who were able to escape from Britain, look on in anticipation.   
  
"Bloody hell, I don't believe it."  
  
"What is it, Severus?"  
  
"They're having a Quidditch match, Fleur. I went to a Quidditch game arranged by the Death Eaters when I was only eighteen years old and, dare I say it, less than wise. People are going to be slaughtered, they're going to make sure of it." Severus Snape glances at his allies, all colour washed from his face.   
  
"Times 'ave changed, so 'ave ze Death Eaters," Fleur Delacour replies, flipping her silvery hair over her shoulders. She stops, noticing five pairs of eyes upon her and adds, "Zey follow Lucius Malfoy, not You-Know-Who."  
  
"Don't be naïve, Fleur," a white haired wizard clad entirely in black scolds. "I was there. As much as I hate to say this, Severus is right. They'd be better off killing themselves than dealing with what those Death Eaters have planned."  
  
"You don't 'ave faith in ze players?"   
  
"I have too much faith in the Death Eaters, Miss Delacour. Or, are you forgetting that Severus and myself used to be a part of their inner circle. You would be wise to listen to us in matters such as these." The previous Death Eater crosses his arms, ignoring the glares from the two wizards who have remained silent. But one does lean forward to address his concerns.  
  
"How do we tell _him _this?" He refers to the head of their alliance.   
  
"We don't. He doesn't need this; he has enough problems with the Ministries."   



	10. Chapter Nine : Quidditch

**Chapter Nine : Quidditch**  
  
  
  
The thirteenth day of the fifth month comes directly from the minds of the Slytherins, and of how they picture the day to be. Fog hangs thick about them, ending somewhere near the torsos of the tallest, and most cannot see an arm's length before them. Twenty-six players, professional as well as amateur, gather around Slytherin captain Marcus Flint, and one of his Beaters--and not to mention bird--Rae Landon. She leans upon her broomstick, one of the newfound _Firebolt Ice_s, and sports an awfully bored look as Marcus lectures on about the new rules of the game. The players across from them yawn, or roll their eyes; they have heard this speech a thousand times before.   
  
"Flint, is this really necessary? I'm sure all of the captains here have had this talk with their players." Oliver comments, glancing around as other players agree with his words. Exhaling lightly, he voices the assumption everyone around him has, "We play two games, I'm presuming Slytherin versus Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw verses Hufflepuff." Of course, he thinks, Slytherin and Gryffindor would be rivaling. It's a given fact.   
  
But, the Slytherins break out into a course of laughter.   
  
"You're a wanker, Wood." Marcus states, chuckling nonchalantly. "Never assume. It's not always the best thing to do, and you are usually wrong. The game will go as follows: Slytherin versus Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff. The Quidditch Pitch, designed by Gene Avery, has goal posts located at north, south, east, and west. The game, as usual, will play until the Golden Snitch is caught by one of the four Seekers, and the Quaffle counts as ten points. Sets of broomsticks have been supplied, courtesy of Lucius Malfoy."   
  
Marcus motions towards twenty-seven brooms. Each is new and a dark oak colour, and handwritten along the handles are _Firebolt Lightning_ in copper script, _Firebolt Air_ in gold thread, _Firebolt Glade_ in emeralds, or _Firebolt Ice_ in jagged blue rock. "Lightning is the Seeker's broom, Air belongs to the Chasers, Glade to the Keepers, and Ice to the Beaters. There will be four Bludgers and two Quaffles, so keep your eyes open. Weasley and Malfoy will be refereeing this match, so let's hope that Weasley can stand the sight of blood. All other game rules do not apply. We play for blood, or we don't play at all."   
  
A few of the players glance around cautiously; the younger ones begin to back away. "Blood?" comes a voice from the back. It takes Marcus several seconds to realise that Kerianna Spencer, twenty-three-year-old Hufflepuff Chaser, is speaking. "Isn't it against the rules to physically hurt someone?" She asks matter-of-factly, placing her hands into the pockets of her orange Quidditch robes and rocking back and forth slightly.   
  
"All other game rules do not apply, Spencer. Are there any _relevant _questions?"   
  
No one speaks, as most are too fixated on the fact that this Quidditch match will be unlike any other they have ever played. If they had known this before, a different strategy would have been practiced. A few, though, are not surprised at this revelation; Oliver Wood even expected something to be amiss. Especially with the Slytherins.   
  
"Captains, you have ten minutes to prep your teams. Dismissed."   
  
The players hustle over to select their respective brooms and follow their captains into the locker rooms. The Slytherins remain on the Pitch; four of the players glare at Rae. Only the haughty Seeker, Draco Malfoy, steps forward from the line.  
  
"You let her on the team?" Draco raises his nose towards Rae, judging her with a disapproving look. "Just because you're shagging the captain doesn't mean that your talents extend past his chambers. You have no place here, wench!" He sneers the last word at her, seeming not to care that Marcus is ready to pounce on him. He is Draco Malfoy after all, Lucius' only son and heir. Therefore, he cannot be touched.   
  
Adrian fights the urge to pound on Draco, as well, and his eyes momentarily connect with Rae's. She quickly glances away. Marcus does step forward, brooding over Draco threateningly; Rae is _his _after all. Draco stares Marcus squarely in the eyes, his trademark smirk never faltering on his pale face as he refuses to back down.   
  
"What is going on here?" Lucius Malfoy and Percy Weasley both approach from literally nowhere, as the fog that's settled among them has yet to clear.   
  
Marcus immediately pulls back, but his gaze lingers on Draco. "Nothing, sir. But I'm about to teach this whelp a lesson."  
  
With a fierce look and raised eyebrow, it's apparent that Lucius's concern for his son's well being outweighs the fact that Marcus has every reason to be angry. But a dispute is not something he wants to show before inmates, for it would show a weakness, and Death Eaters are not weak.   
  
"Stand down, Flint," Lucius orders as he steps protectively towards his son.  
  
Growling, Marcus turns away sharply; he doesn't notice that Draco has juvenilely stuck his tongue out at his captain. Draco glances up at his father seconds later, a smug look and crossed arms serving as his thank you.   
  
*** * ***  
  
Twenty-one players stare in awe at the design of the Quidditch Pitch. As Marcus stated earlier, the goal posts stand at north, south, east, and west--Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw, respectively. What Marcus failed to mention was that upon each of the goal hoops are five small, very sharp, silver spikes, and each post is painted the colours of the respective house.   
  
Spanning from east to west is a set of stands; hundreds of Death Eaters have come to watch this match. A box at the very end holds about three hundred of the inmates, selected personally by Gene Avery to watch their friends or family fly. Among them are Neville Longbottom, Ginny Wealsey, and Cressida Capulet.  
  
The fog still hangs thick around them, but rising on their brooms, they notice the air above them is crystal clear.   
  
Lucius throws the Quaffles high into the air, and almost immediately, Slytherin is in possession. Of course, the players who first have possession the Quaffles was determined by Lucius, for he threw them towards the Slytherins a fraction of a degree more, but that's all it took for Adrian and Travis to catch them and zoom towards the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw goal hoops. The other players realise that the Slytherins have perfected their tactics when Chaser Marcus Flint purposely rams into Oliver Wood, sending the Keeper spinning to the left so that Adrian can freely shoot a goal.   
  
Katie Bell catches the ball, and Gryffindor now streaks towards the Hufflepuff goal posts. Katie Bell passes to Ronald Weasley, who nearly catches it before Hufflepuff Chaser Kyle Whitby intercepts it. Kyle underhands the Quaffle to Megan Jones, who drops it. And Ravenclaw Chaser Roger Davies catches it with ease, and Slytherin Travis Nott is now hot on his heels.   
  
Roger soars past Marcus, streaking towards the tallest Slytherin goal hoop. Rae Landon attempts to knock a Bludger into his path, but Roger's eyesight is keen, and he ducks, causing the Bludger to smack into Slytherin Keeper Alexander Montague, allowing an easy ten points for Ravenclaw. But Slytherin comes back with a vengeance when Marcus cuts Roger off. As Roger tries to dodge, Adrian blocks his path, and at the same time, Lucius Malfoy mutters two words, and the only place Roger has to go is down. Darkness gathers in the corners of his eyes before he blacks out completely.  
  
With Slytherin's attention elsewhere, Gryffindor easily gains possession, streaking once more towards the Hufflepuff goals. Natalie McDonald tosses the Quaffle, which is intercepted by Ronald Weasley before it reaches its expected recipient, Katie Bell.   
  
Stebbins, Hufflepuff's teenage Beater, wails a screaming Bludger towards Ron, but it's deflected by Fred, who sends it towards Travis Nott, the Slytherin who is catching up fast. Ron passes back to Natalie, who is positioned strategically close to the Hufflepuff goal posts. Gryffindor scores ten points, and Slytherin gains possession of one of the Quaffles.  
  
When the Quaffle is discharged from Nott's possession, Katie Bell never notices, but she suddenly finds herself with the large red ball, heading back towards the Slytherin goal posts. Ducking, she barely dodges a Bludger sent her way by Ravenclaw Su Li, and she never realises that a Slytherin is closing in fast.   
  
"Katie!" George Weasley warns as he desperately backtracks towards the Chaser, leaving the Bludger he was chasing to be smacked towards a Hufflepuff by Leland Derrick. Leaning forward, he wills his _Firebolt Ice_ to fly faster, but it's too late.   
  
Marcus Flint has already de-broomed the young blonde with a simple kick to her head. A nauseating blood splash is the only thing that echoes through the arena as the doomed Chaser plunges to the rocky ground below.  
  
The Gryffindor players stop dead to witness the death of their comrade, and live with the guilt that nothing they could have done would have changed the outcome. Mourning is brief, for the game is still playing out all around them. By the time the Gryffindors draw their attention back towards the others, Adrian Pucey has scored ten points.   
  
The disgusted look on Megan Jones's face from the Slytherins' brutal treatment of fellow players would forever be her downfall. She stares at the fallen form of Katie Bell, her blood seeping into the dry grass as tears swell behind Megan's eyes. She never knew the girl, but Megan has been known to be an extremely melodramatic Hufflepuff. She examines the scene before her with double vision, but she doesn't see what is most important. A Bludger sent by Leland Derrick smacks inexperienced Ravenclaw Chaser Lisa Turnip, and she collides with Megan. The two youths meet their fate as Katie did.  
  
Upon seeing what has transpired over the last few minutes of the game, and what a simple lapse in concentration can do to a player, everyone continues about their business. Only, this time, thoughts other than winning are on their minds.  
  
Gryffindor scores ten points on Slytherin, only to realise it's because the Slytherin Chasers are focussed on Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw Keeper. Adrian has whipped his Firebolt Air around powerfully, the bristles smacking Penelope in the back and dismounting her. The only sound heard is Percy screaming angrily at Adrian with his wand aimed, but Penelope never hits the ground.   
  
Marcus catches her.  
  
Only to hang her upon one of the Slytherin goal posts, as Leland Derrick beats a Bludger into the woman's form, sending her through the hoop and towards the ground.   
  
Percy, out of rage and disgust, curses a Bludger towards Marcus, and the game resumes with Hufflepuff in possession of both Quaffles, and ten points ahead. In that moment, two separate Bludgers are diving towards two separate Slytherins, Leland and Marcus. In the heat of the game, Rae debates over what she can do to save her two team mates. By the time she decides on a course of action, she realises it's too late for Leland, but there is a chance to deflect the Bludger heading towards Marcus.   
  
A Bludger contacts with Leland's broom, breaking it in two. The bottom half of the broom falls first, with Leland spinning towards the ground a few seconds later. As Leland realises too late he's still holding the shard of his broom before him, he hits the ground with a searing pain shooting through his lower abdomen and a wash of blood across his robes.   
  
Many have to look away at the gruesome sight of Leland's impalement.   
  
Before he completely blacks out, Leland notices that a few of the younger players descend on their brooms, vomiting into the grass as the stench of death hangs thick in the air.   
  
Rae's attention is drawn to Leland and her one mistake; she doesn't realise that she's made another. She sent the Bludger, which evaded Marcus perfectly, spinning towards Draco Malfoy and smacking him right on his nose.   
  
Marcus angrily calls a timeout. He has two concerns at the moment: Rae, and Draco's nose. As the rage grows inside of him, he chooses to take his anger out on that which is most convenient. Which, matter-of-factly, is Rae. "That's why we never let bitches onto the team! They're too weak to make the right calls!" His words are backed up by silent nods from all, except for Adrian.   
  
Rae anger explodes into action as she smacks Marcus squarely between the thighs with her Beater's bat. All Marcus hears as he falls to his knees is Oliver laughing, and his hands automatically clench that which burns with a searing pain. He's going to make sure Rae pays for this later. With the other players still laughing, the game resumes, and Marcus is out of commission.  
  
Slytherin scores an simple ten points on Ravenclaw due to the players' amusement at what happened to the Slytherin captain.   
  
"At this point, the scores stand thus . . ." Gene Avery bellows over the crowd. "Slytherin: 100, Hufflepuff close on their heels with 80, Gryffindor closing in fast with 70, and poor pathetic Ravenclaw with 50. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are back in possession of the Quaffles now . . ."  
  
All attention is drawn back to the air, where a blond and a redheaded wizard streak towards a golden flash that only the keenest of eyes can observe. By this time, the other two Seekers have noticed the struggle for the Snitch, and both zoom towards the area to where the Snitch has been spotted. By the time they arrive on the scene, they only have time to witness the Bludger being shot towards Charlie by Rae, and Charlie has no choice but to zig. And Draco zags when he should have zigged.   
  
The Bludger contacts with the back of Draco's neck, knocking him forward with a loud snap of instant death.   
  
Charlie desperately attempts to dive to save the falling form, but it proves irrelevant. Lucius has withdrawn his wand and is easing his son's body gently to the ground.   
  
With his wand still extended, a cold vengeance runs through Lucius's veins. He aims his wand towards the one whom he blames for the death of his son: Percy Weasley. If he hadn't pressed the idiotic idea of a Quidditch match, his son would still be alive.   
  
Percy realises what is going on around him by the look of hatred in Malfoy's eyes. He stands, leaving Penelope in Ginny's care, and prepares to defend himself from the coming attack.   
  
At that exact same moment in time, Fred comes to an abrupt halt in midair, seeing a moment of opportunity--a Bludger coming towards him. Taking careful aim, he smashes the Bludger towards Lucius, hoping to cause as great a pain as Lucius caused them when he killed their father.  
  
Now Lucius has two things to worry about.   
  
And it's too late to go back on either one.   
  
_"Expelliarmus_!"   
  
Within moments, the disarming charm and the Bludger contact with Lucius. He feels a collapse in his wrist as the bones shatter and penetrate the skin. A scream is heard, but the game continues on as most of the Death Eaters stare in disgust at the stupidity of their leader.   
  
This is why emotions are considered a weakness.  
  
Out of the corner of Michael's eyes, he notices a strikingly familiar female. He excitedly reaches over to tug on Summers's sleeve. "That's her! That's the bird I nailed!"  
  
Summers has a look of absolute horror and disgust as he realises who the bird is. "You fucking tosser! That trash belongs to Flint. You never go near that. I don't know you anymore, man! You better pray that he doesn't find out." And with those words, he darts after a Bludger that went by his way.  
  
"I don't care what you think! She said she loved me, even though she called me Adrian!" In his rash determination, he dives towards Rae Landon.   
  
After that last Bludger she sent in the direction of a couple Ravenclaw Chasers, Rae recognises the wizard seated upon the Firebolt Lightning as the young Michael, the bloke who comforted her when both Marcus and Adrian were guards at Alpha. "Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I was rid of that!" She does several circles around the Pitch to shake the annoying youth, but he persists.   
  
Adrian notices this and decides to do something to rid the woman he loves of the little nuisance. _"Accio _Beater's Bat!" And Leland's unneeded bat flies towards Adrian, and he grasps it with a firm grip. Circling around counterclockwise, Adrian winds up and clouts Michael on the crown. Hufflepuff's Seeker instantaneously blacks out and falls from his broom.  
  
While the Slytherins are preoccupied with the Seeker, Charlie Wealsey catches the Snitch. Gene's voice booms over the crowd once more. "Gryffindor wins with the final score of 290! Hufflepuff in second with 170, Ravenclaw in third with 150, and Slytherin not gaining in position, the points still stand at 100!"  
  
The players descend in silence, out of respect for the friends that they lost today.   
  
Oliver Wood escorts his team to the lockers, and as they pass Katie's body, they mumble a short prayer and strain to keep the tears at bay. That doesn't last long; in the showers, they wash the blood away and let the tears fall.   
  
Kerianna leads her team to the Hufflepuff lockers; along the way Summers and Stebbins pick up Michael's unconscious body. Most glare at Adrian as he walks by, for it is his fault. Upon throwing Michael into a cold shower, he wakes up and yells several incoherent and imaginary curses that he doesn't even know the meanings of.   
  
Cho Chang does not follow her team into the locker room; instead she stops at the body of her love. Not a drop of blood graces his perfect ivory skin. Kneeling, she runs her hand over Draco's forehead, only to be pulled away by resident medi-witch Pansy Parkinson.   
  
"Lucius wishes for the body to be untouched by all hands besides his own."   
  
Cho hiccups before she bursts into tears, and Pansy leads her away as tears soak into her white nursing robes. As both women depart, Lucius silently picks up the body of his fallen son, his actions a pain in his heart as well as his wrist. He walks past his Death Eaters as a ghost, and no one but Percy Weasley follows him.   
  
The Slytherins remain on the field; everyone ignores Alexander Montague as he kneels beside Leland Derrick, just staring at him. They know not to approach him, Alexander and Leland were once best friends, and may have even been more.   
  
With a deep breath, Alexander pulls the shard of oak broom from Leland's torso. Forcing himself to his feet, he's joined by Cressida Capulet, and both are escorted back to Camp Lambda. Alexander never once discards the bloody shard to the ground.   
  
"You shouldn't keep that." Cressida states, a little too harshly for Alexander's ears.   
  
"Don't tell me what to do." Alexander holds the shard closer to his heart.   
  
One by one, the Slytherin team eventually leaves, and Marcus finally stands to approach Rae. "If I didn't want to bone you tonight, I'd shoot you out of a canon. Because of you, Leland's dead, and my nads still hurt!" He curls his left fist and strikes out, causing her to double over with pain as his fist contacts with her abdomen. As Adrian witnesses this, a surge of bile rises in his throat.   
  
But, he walks away.   



	11. Chapter Ten : Fallout

**Chapter Ten : Fallout**  
  
  
  
"I should kill that Weasley for this," Lucius states, his voice as cold as death and just as unnatural. Of all the people who died in that Quidditch game, Draco's death may have very well been the worst to Lucius, and his Death Eaters will be the ones to pay for it in the end.   
  
Percy stares at Lucius for several moments and pulls his black cloak tighter at his neck before responding. "Don't you dare touch a single hair on my brother's head." He doesn't look at Lucius as he speaks; he feels he doesn't need to to get his point across. Instead his attention is drawn out a glacial patterned window, where a lonely red-breasted robin sits upon a branch of a budding tree.   
  
"If it wasn't for him . . ." Lucius shifts uneasily at the memory, crossing his right leg over his left, before deciding that the other way is more comfortable. Both Death Eaters sit around a circular table made purely from glass and steel, and the many windows enhancing the small chamber cast a bright light upon them.   
  
"Draco would still be dead. All Fred did was break your wrist, and that's hardly worth an execution when I am around, Lucius. It was a small price to pay for what you did, and what you wanted to do!" Percy snaps, staring Lucius in his ice blue eyes as he leans forward with his elbows resting on the table. "Were you fool enough to believe that you could kill me, and it would justify your son's death?"   
  
"Watch your tongue, Weasley."  
  
"You watch _your _tongue, Lucius. Or I may just cut it out."  
  
"With a spoon, I hope." And his mind soberly wanders back to his son. Without a word of a respectful good-bye, Percy stands to leave, slamming the door on his way out; it causes the room and any décor to clatter. Lucius sits alone in a heavy silence for nearly an hour, staring through the glass of the antique table, which used to be Draco's favourite when he was a child.  
  
*** * ***  
  
"Mister Weasley!" Pansy Parkinson calls as she rushes to catch up to Percy, who walks with purpose down the hall. Slightly out of breath, she places her hand over her chest and breathes in deeply through her nose. Tight blonde curls bounce just past her shoulders, and her copper eyes have lost their light since the events that took place this morning. "There is a Mister Charles Weasley who wishes to speak with you before he's taken back to Alpha. He's in the infirmary with Miss Penelope Clearwater. I'm surprised you haven't gone to see her yet." Penelope's welfare should have been Percy's first priority if he loves her as much as he says he does.  
  
Percy sighs. "Lucius wished to speak with me first."  
  
Pansy nods as she bites her lip, understanding all too well. "It is a terrible loss; Miss Chang has even locked herself in his quarters. She refuses to leave, crying hysterically that he promised to meet her after the match. Between sobs, all I heard was '_he would never stand me up. He will come_.' I'd be with her now, but I've had my hands full with . . ."  
  
Percy unexpectedly raises his hand to hush her. "Don't." The one thing he doesn't want to hear ever again is the bloodshed of that Quidditch match.   
  
She averts her attention to the ground, ashamed at bringing up something as tragic as that. "I'm sorry, Mister Weasley."  
  
"May I see my brother now, Pansy?" Percy asks politely, almost scared of talking to him again. Their first reunion, nearly three months ago, was all but joyous.   
  
Pansy simply nods and spins on her heels, heading back in the direction of which she came. Percy hesitantly follows her into the doors of the infirmary, which is warm and inviting, unlike most of the castle. Tiers of white candles hang from the ivory walls, illuminating the place with an old-fashioned air. A tan curtain is drawn across half of the room, separating the ill from the healthy. Charlie sits alone in one of the chairs, and Penelope rests upon the medical bed.  
  
"Is this about the Quidditch match?" Percy sits next to his older brother, attempting not to wake Penelope. He considers repeating the question when Charlie doesn't answer him, but as he opens his mouth to do so, Charlie finally speaks with a hushed tone.  
  
"Once I got past the initial shock of everything that happened, it just seemed dim. I don't understand how this Quidditch game was supposed to raise the morale of the prisoners . . . But then it hit me. It wasn't supposed to. Not in the end. It may have been your intention at the beginning, but your selection of the Slytherin captain was a damn foolish one. Sure, he's great in the air, he was captain for four years. And Flint probably would have pounded on you, as he did during your days at Hogwarts, if you passed that position by him. We both know that that bloke's power lies not in his wand, but in his hands.   
  
"I can remember times when you'd come home over Christmas with bruises on your back, and you'd claim that Penelope or Oliver gave them to you while you were just joshing around with each other, it was no big deal. You never admitted that a couple of Slytherins were getting the best of you. So why make Flint the captain? Then I remembered--you are a Death Eater. You and he share a common bond, although you don't want to admit it."   
  
Charlie pauses, but only to crack his knuckles. "We both know that with a simple curse, you could kill Flint. But then, if you killed one of Malfoy's loyal Death Eaters--granted, you'd be doing a couple of people a favour by killing him--Malfoy would hang you for treason. It'd be an easy way to get rid of you. And I know that if Malfoy rid himself of you, he'd be doing himself a favour. Because you seem to have the leader of Britain in your debt; you seem to have a power over him that no one else has. I was watching you on the Pitch after Draco died. Malfoy was ready to kill you, and if you were any other Death Eater, I believe he would have. But you are who you are.   
  
"So, Percy. My question to you is, why did you kill Lord Voldemort?"  
  
Percy's jaw hits the floor, staying there for several seconds as he frantically stumbles for words. Inhaling deeply, he takes a quick look at Penelope before giving his full attention to Charlie with an explanation in mind. "I didn't think anyone had noticed who killed Voldemort. No one seemed to care in the end. I did something not even Harry Potter could do, and I did it because of the people I love. A rule under anyone who isn't Voldemort would be more lenient. The Death Eaters would rather have people to torture and a dead Dark Lord, than live in fear that if they even breathe too heavily, Voldemort would kill them. Those people in the camps would be dead, you'd be dead, and Penelope would be dead."   
  
Percy sighs, and stares over at Penelope as she mumbles something in her sleep. She remains undisturbed, though, and Percy continues on with his reasons. "Lucius came up to me a month after the battle, claiming that I was stronger than he was, and that I was a threat to his power. So I showed him exactly how much of a threat I could be. And because of me, Penelope is alive, my family is alive, and I have more power than I could have ever dreamt of."  
  
"So you're pulling the great Lucius Malfoy's strings?"  
  
Percy smiles slightly. "I guess I am."  
  
* * *  
  
Lucius retires to his chambers around midday with dry eyes and a headache plaguing his mind. Upon entering, he's greeted by a darkness which matches his heart, and a sound of hushed wailing comes from somewhere beyond a closed door. Swallowing dryly, Lucius slams the chamber's door shut, and the woman's tears are interrupted by a startled scream.  
  
Marie Amitri shakily emerges from the locked bathroom, sniffling and wiping away crystal tears. With a pale hand, she flicks the light switch on, and the chandelier high above them gives off a dull light. "I . . . I never expected you to return so quickly," she stutters; many expected the Quidditch match to last at least six hours; however, most were wrong. Even in that short time, irreversible damage was done.   
  
"You've heard?" He assumes the tears are for Draco and the others.  
  
"Heard what?" Marie's voice cracks again, and her hand automatically cups over her mouth, and the other rests on her stomach. She slowly takes a seat on the king-sized bed, smoothing out the wrinkles on the zodiac-printed sheets before becoming fascinated with the hems of her sea blue robes.  
  
Lucius remains silent; maybe if he doesn't acknowledge the truth, maybe if he doesn't say the godforsaken words, it won't be true. This is a magical world they live in, but where's the magic when you bloody need it?  
  
"W--what was I suppose to hear?" Marie presses again, tugging and twisting on the hems of her robes now. A quiet ripping of the seams is heard, and blushing, she places the robes back onto her lap.  
  
Lucius glances at her, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Unable to look Marie in the eyes anymore, he glances in the mirror, but he only sees his reflection. Once again he's reminded of how much Draco looked like him, of how much he loved his son.   
  
"Lucius? What's wrong?" There's a slight panic in Marie's voice.  
  
Momentarily, Lucius drags his eyes from the mirror back to Marie, but replaces them a few seconds later. "It's Draco," he whispers, cracking his knuckles. Gazing back into the mirror, he's greeted not by his reflection, but by the posh face of his deceased wife. His eyes remain fixed there, staring at Narcissa's straight blonde hair, unemotional grey eyes, and high cheekbones. With his eyes on Narcissa, he takes a deep breath. "Draco was killed during the Quidditch match." He forces the words out, but it's as though someone else is speaking them, and he's hearing them for the very first time.  
  
Marie cups her hand over her mouth; nothing she can say seems enough of a comfort. "Oh, my . . . I'm so sorry . . . I don't know . . ."   
  
"I do not wish to talk about it. A change of emotion is now in order. Tell me, why were you crying, Marie?" His voice again resembles death, and he takes his eyes from her, noticing for the first time how many photos of Draco there are in his chambers. Lucius places his eyes back on Marie because of this.   
  
"I . . . I wasn't crying." Marie doesn't care that her lie is obvious.  
  
"You are a terrible liar. Now, tell me."   
  
Marie unenthusiastically chuckles and quickly changes the subject. "Who won the Quidditch match?" She fakes a smile, and quickly adds a reason for her absence. "I would have attended, of course, but Madam Greingrass wished to see me before she continued on her way." She notices the confused look upon Lucius' face, and clarifies that this Madam Greingrass is the head nurse in the district. "Apparently . . . the contraception charm never worked . . . I'm pregnant, Lucius." She bursts into tears once more.  
  
And this only makes Draco's death hurt more.   
  
Once Marie has dried her tears, Lucius unwillingly relives the events that took place. 


	12. Chapter Eleven : Strawberry Hopes

**Chapter Eleven : Strawberry Hopes**  
  
  
  
Adrian Pucey groans, rolling over in the warm bed he's not supposed to be in, but doesn't want to get out of. "Bloody hell." His blue eyes browse over the chamber before they decide to go out of focus again, and all he sees is a blurry mixture of the silver and black canopy bed, and green and black masks that hang upon the plain walls. Sighing deeply, the aroma of strawberry incense fills his lungs, and Adrian shields his eyes against the light from the candles that sit about the room. "Rae?" Raising his hand, he massages his temples in hopes of warding off his headache, before stifling a yawn. No answer comes from Rae, and Adrian sits up farther to glance around. Still no answer; the only thing that flows into his ears is a steady scratching noise coming from somewhere he cannot see, followed by a few curses. The voice unmistakably belongs to Rae.   
  
"Damn fucking spots!"  
  
Adrian groans again, and forcing himself from the comfortable bed, he grabs for his robes, which are still his Quidditch set from the night before. He never returned to his own chambers; instead, he waited for Rae in hers. And he was thankful when she did return.  
  
The cement floor is cold underneath his bare feet, and slightly wet. "Bloody hell?" Adrian shakes his head, dismissing the dampness as a cause of the late May rainfall. With his headache forgotten, but still pressing between his temples, another set of curses passes his ears. He decides to set off in the general direction from which they are coming, which just happens to be the bathroom.  
  
"Rae?" He enters the elegant room, only to find Rae scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees. Then he realises that this is why the floor in the main room was damp. "What in the bloody hell are you doing?"   
  
"Damn fucking spot!" is Rae's only reply. Her chocolate tresses are pulled back loosely into a ponytail, though a few strands fall before her empty blue eyes. She wears washed-out brown robes, which are wet at the knees, and too baggy for her thin frame.   
  
"Why are you doing servant's work?" Adrian drawls, his headache now worse than ever. He glances around, noticing that the marble seashell sink and the clawfoot soaking tub are also spotlessly clean.  
  
Rae doesn't reply, she merely begins to scrub faster.  
  
"Get up, Rae."  
  
"I thought you liked me on my knees."  
  
Adrian rolls his eyes. "No. You have me confused with your boyfriend." His tone is extremely bitter, but in the end the words hurt him more than he expected, and don't jade Rae. When she ignores him again, he changes the subject to the help that every witch and wizard owns. "Where's that house-elf of yours?"  
  
"I dismissed Kydal a few months ago. Blaise needed him more than I did, with the new born baby and all. A lovely girl; Seamus should be proud. I think they named her Lillian. Lillian Zabini-Finnigan." Rae continues to wash the floors; she doesn't notice that she has rendered Adrian speechless from her words. "Oh," she begins to clean one cement tile intensely with both hands, "damn bloody spots!"  
  
Adrian drags his gaze downwards but sees not the obsessed-over spot. "Rae?" Concern rides over his voice; he's never seen Rae behave like this before.  
  
"Did you know he told me it was my fault?" Her voice cracks as she speaks, and she unenthusiastically chuckles afterwards to cover her depression.  
  
Adrian furrows his eyebrows, and he takes a seat before Rae on the step leading up to the bathtub. "Who told you what?" He places his hand over hers, and she looks up at him. For the first time, he notices a light indigo bruise under her right eye, and a crack in her lower lip, unmistakably caused by Marcus' fist. He doesn't need to hear the words now to know what she's talking about. The anger begins to boil inside of him, but he is only a bystander, and Marcus would never listen to Adrian lecturing him on how to treat a lady.  
  
"Marcus wanted to see me earlier, before dawn broke. And being the scared prat that I am, I went to his chambers." She shakes slightly, abruptly pulling away from Adrian's touch, as though he is Marcus and could strike her at any time.  
  
"Rae, listen to me. Leland's death wasn't your fault. It was either him or Marcus."  
  
"I made the wrong choice. I should have saved Leland and let the Bludger smack into Marcus. Should have let Marcus's blood stain the earth instead of Leland's." She drops her cloth into the water bucket; it lands with a splash of dirty water. "Marcus should have been the one to die, not Leland. Never Leland."  
  
Adrian nods an agreement, and Rae, disgustedly, jumps to her feet, tipping the water bucket over. Used water flows over their feet, but they neither notice nor care.  
  
"How can you agree with that? He's your best mate!" Hypocrisy means nothing to her; she has a reason to detest Marcus, but she doesn't believe that Adrian does.  
  
"Best mate or not, the bloke's a bloody cunt. You think that friendship matters to him? I'm only his best mate because I haven't done anything to piss him off--well, nothing he knows about. He'd kill me at first chance if he knew about us, and you think it's nauseating that I'd prefer him dead? I'm a bloody sitting duck when I'm with you! I'm the one putting everything on the line." Adrian stands as well, but doesn't take the offensive. His tone remains understanding and calm. He has always been level-headed; it's something his mother taught him.  
  
"What the fuck do you want me to do about it? You knew that when you became involved with me again that I was with Marcus!" Rae exhales sharply, throwing her arms into the air exasperatedly before turning to storm from the bathroom.  
  
Adrian follows closely behind. "I want you to break up with him!"  
  
Rae stops short, sniggering lowly. "Don't you think that if I could, I would have already? But Marcus would kill me before he let me leave him. I'm sorry, Adrian, but I don't really want to die. I'm selfish that way." She sighs and slumps her shoulders before Adrian takes her tightly in his arms. "I'm too young to die. Too bloody young."  
  
"I should have never brought it up, just forget about it. About him." He leans forward, raising Rae's chin with his hand to kiss her deeply. Rae's hand clasps with his, and she pulls him closer while their lips remained locked. When Adrian does pull away, several minutes have already passed. He smiles, changing the subject to a--hopefully--lighter tone. "How about you tell me why that Hufflepuff Seeker was chasing you?" He's been meaning to ask her for a bit now, but the opportunity never arose.   
  
"I think he wanted another shag."  
  
_"Another_?" Adrian places his hands on Rae's shoulders, and pushes her away slightly. "When was the first shag? And do you know that he's eight years your junior?"  
  
"Of course I know that. But . . . I was lonely. You and Marcus both were at Alpha, so I went to Terence Higgs and asked if he could bring someone up from a camp for a bit of consolation. He brought up a fifteen-year-old Hufflepuff." Rae runs her slender fingers up and down Adrian's arm, sending chills down his spine, and she begins to slowly remove his green robes. "It meant nothing; I gave Corner a Polyjuice Potion to turn him into you . . ."  
  
"I never knew you were good at Potions."  
  
"I'm not. I paid Pansy Parkinson five galleons to brew one."  
  
"Pansy?" Adrian swallows hard, licking his lips and stopping Rae from doing what she has planned. "Pansy knows about us?" Everyone knows that Pansy is the biggest gossip in the castle. Nothing's a secret with her.  
  
Upon noticing that she has Adrian squirming for all the wrong reasons, Rae eases his fears. "Don't worry about it. Pansy won't be telling Marcus anything. Matter of fact, I think she was ecstatic to hear that I was cheating on him. Apparently, he killed her best friend in 1996, Millicent Bulstrode, and she has never forgiven him for it."   
  
Adrian slowly nods. "But, how did Marcus not find out? He should have been able to smell your scent all over Corner." Suddenly, Adrian wonders how Marcus doesn't smell Rae on him. Maybe the troll genes Marcus possesses aren't as they seem, but that wouldn't be something he terribly minds.  
  
Rae grins. "Strawberries are the one thing that can cover any scent with so Marcus won't pick up on it. Call it a loophole if you wish, but I lucked out when I discovered that." And for the first time, Adrian understands why Rae's chamber is filled with strawberry scented candles and incense. He grins, too, and kisses Rae once more, but she immediately pulls away.  
  
"I have spots on my spotless floor that must be removed."   
  
* * *  
  
The usually peaceful conference room of the International House of Ministers on this cool October morning bustles with nearly one hundred and fifty delegates, and the six members of the Last Alliance. Tensions hang thick in the air, and the atmosphere is cold and uncompassionate. Flags of over two hundred nations hang diagonally from the walls, and the room is filled with three semi-circular oak tables, and one round table of matching wood where the Last Alliance resides sits in the centre.   
  
"We've come here today . . ." one wizard, obviously the head of the alliance, starts.   
  
"Listen, I don't know who you think you are, but you have no place here," interrupts a female voice from the lead table. Her hair is crow-black, very fine and straight, falling to the middle of her back. Her eyes are deep-set chestnut, and they flash with power, violence, and a prejudice towards those who are below her. She wears ancient silver jewelry of old and forgotten gods and goddesses of Egypt, and her skin is a golden brown tone. Brushing her hair away from her face, she reveals a scar along her left wrist in the shape of an X.   
  
"We have every place here, Miss . . ."  
  
"Tahirah Nefertari," the thin woman replies with a harsh tone. Crossing her arms, she sighs heavily and continues, "And if you do not know who I am, then I suggest you leave. We don't have to answer to fallen heroes whose powers are weaker than our own." She considers these wizards to be a waste of time and oxygen, and it's noticed for the first time that two guards stand close behind her. She appears to be an important woman in the congress; all of the Ministers remain silent as she speaks, but this is their first time meeting her.   
  
"Miss Nefertari, we only wish to help," another of the alliance explains.  
  
"I understand that, but we are not prepared for a full-frontal assault."  
  
The chamber falls under a hush as most become more uncomfortable in their surroundings. There are some who believe that Tahirah speaks reasonably, while a small fraction of the Ministers would side with the Last Alliance if the choice ever arose. Of course, they keep that piece of information to themselves.   
  
"You fool! You are no better than Lucius Malfoy! You are condemning those people to death--why can't you see that?" Severus Snape growls, pounding his pale hands on the firm arms of his elm wood chair. He leans forward to stand, but grudgingly stops when someone's hand lands on his shoulder to calm him. Severus glances over to be met with eyes as black as his own. Growling, he pulls his naturally greasy hair back and mumbles select words to the wizard beside him that no one else picks up.   
  
Tahirah Nefertari stands slowly in one cat-like movement. Her black silk robes fit tightly, flaring out past her large hips, and across the left lapel is the insignia of the International House of Ministers. All other delegates hang on her every word, as she starts to lecture the Last Alliance with a bored and lazy tone. She's had enough of these . . . _people_. "If we act now, those prisoners will die. It's best we bide our time, for there is nothing we can do at the moment. When an opportunity arises, I ensure you we will act, but not until then. We don't have enough manpower to take on those thousands of Death Eaters; it would be foolish to charge into battle. We have to build our numbers." She takes her seat as most of the countries' Ministers nod in agreement. A few pound their fists on their tables, and when Tahirah sternly raises her hand to hush them, they instantaneously listen.   
  
"Fine. You build your bloody numbers. We will draw up a plan and act." The leader of the alliance stands as he speaks, and the other five members follow his example. "We bid you a good day, and let me just say that we believe you are making a huge mistake. Where are the wizards who were anxious for our help? You'd best listen to those under you, Miss Nefertari. It just might do some . . ."   
  
"Guards, escort these men out." Tahirah smirks and crosses her arms.   
  
Seven guards emerge from the sides, and the alliance steps back cautiously.   
  
"We can show ourselves out."   
  
But the imperial guards don't listen, and the Ministers only watch as the Last Alliance is consecutively thrown out of the conference room onto their ears. The door slams shut on Snape's robes, and they sit there for more than a few seconds, reflecting on the meeting that didn't go as planned.   
  
When one does crawl to his feet, the others do as well.  
  
Five wizards and a witch march down the barren corridors, heads high although they believe that they have failed. But hopefully it's just a minor set-back.   
  
Does every Ministry have the privilege of ignoring important issues? If the Ministry of Britain never ignored Harry Potter in 1995, maybe things would have turned out for the better. But maybe not.  
  
Because of the Ministry of Magic, they'll never know.  
  
Once they have stepped from the House of Representatives and onto the dismal streets of Paris, Igor Karkaroff clears his throat, and all eyes are drawn to him in hopes of better news, but that's not usually what Karkaroff brings. "Do you realise who has taken over as International Minister?"  
  
All shake their heads, but are wary about his answer.  
  
"A Death Eater's widow."   
  
"Fuck, Jerrell Amitri's wife. I thought she looked familiar. Bloody hell, has she ever changed, though?" Severus replies, shaking his head with disgust. "It seems as though the Death Eaters have infiltrated the Ministries more than we expected." What they don't know is that her connections to the Death Eaters run deeper than a deceased husband.   
  
The head of the group sighs and curses under his breath.  
  
He Apparates away without a word, and the others follow gravely in suit.  
  



	13. Chapter Twelve : Ancient Magick

Chapter Twelve : Ancient Magick  
  
  
  
A deafening shatter fills the castle's infirmary, echoing like a stone being thrown into calm waters, only to be silenced at the bare shores. A mumbled apology comes from two young medi-witches, and the head nurse, Madam Greingrass, shoots a serious and disappointed glare towards each of them before turning back to her business. She is a short woman with a few extra pounds, and her silver hair is wrapped tightly into a bun. Her heavy robes are white and red, and hazel eyes stare through a pair of glasses with lenses too thick for the frame. Her patient sits impatiently after she makes sure that the two medi-witches have cleaned the broken glass from the floor.  
  
"Penelope, would you mind holding this?" Madam Greingrass passes her a small flask, thin necked and circular bottomed, filled with an opaque liquid. Penelope leans forward and reaches out, wrapping her fingers around the bottom of the potion, and drawing it back towards her. Greingrass turns back to her muddled desk, organizing a few papers in hopes of finding the file on Penelope that she needs in order to complete the yearly check-up.   
  
Penelope Clearwater sits apprehensively upon one of the examining tables, a thin, pale sheet the only thing that separates her from the cold metal that chills her skin. She's never liked the infirmary, not since her sixth year at Hogwarts when the Basilisk petrified her. Glancing at the potion, she notices that a few green speckles have started to appear, causing a chemical reaction to start. Slowly, green spirals form, and Penelope stares at them, mesmerized by the way they move and the shapes they have taken.   
  
When Madam Greingrass turns back to Penelope and her eyes fall upon the potion, she tilts her head in astonishment, never having expected that reaction to start. "How strange that is." She places her clipboard down onto her desk and cranes her head towards the young medi-witches who are now gossiping excitedly among themselves. "Olivia!" she calls, and a young girl wearing too much make-up looks her way.   
  
"Yes, mother?" the daughter drones. Her hair is short and spiked and has been the colour of ivory since her seventh year at Hogwarts. She remains standstill, turning at her torso to glance at her mum with olive green eyes.   
  
"Did you brew this potion correctly?" Madam Greingrass places her hands on her robust hips and gives Olivia a sceptical look; her daughter usually cuts corners when it comes to any sort of work.  
  
Olivia rolls her eyes, annoyed with the interruption that is her mother. "Pansy brewed it herself. You know she's best in potions." And the witch beside her, Pansy Parkinson, smiles proudly. Potions was her best subject during Hogwarts, but only because she was taught by the best.  
  
Olivia turns back to Pansy, and without another word to her mother, she runs her hand down Pansy's arm. In silenced whispers, the two nineteen-year-olds continue their heated conversation.   
  
"Oh dear." Madam Greingrass turns back to Penelope with a nervous look and a pallid complexion. "Penny, have you been feeling well lately?"  
  
"Yes . . ."  
  
"Been throwing up at all?"  
  
Penelope raises an eyebrow. "No. . . . What is this about? What's wrong?" She runs both hands through her blonde hair in frustration.  
  
Madam Greingrass sighs, hoping the young Penelope won't drop the potion with the shocking news. It was a hassle to brew, after all. "It seems that you're pregnant. That potion you hold is a detector and will turn green if the lady holding it is with child."  
  
Penelope's free hand automatically slides down to her stomach, and she remembers that Marie, Lucius's woman who is now five months pregnant, does the same thing. Finding words to speak is a task, but after several seconds, she manages to whisper, "But--but, how can that be? I've taken all the right precautions, wizard as well as Muggle methods. . . ."  
  
"I don't know, Miss Clearwater. But these results never lie," Madam Greingrass replies with a soft and understanding voice. The last thing she wants to do is upset Penelope. She takes the potion back, and holding it up to the lights of the infirmary, she watches as the green dissipates. "Conception Charms aren't always foolproof, and the Muggle methods aren't trustworthy. I've always said that abstinence is the best way. If you don't wish to get pregnant, don't have sex. Do you know that a baby is going to change your lives?"  
  
"Of course I do! It's not something that I will take lightly. I've always wanted to be a mother, but not now. Not with our future . . . looking as it does." She averts her gaze out the window, where a strong gust of wind howls past, blowing red and orange leaves from the October trees. "The last thing my child needs is to grow up with Death Eaters, and Death Eater beliefs." She inhales sharply, forcing herself not to get emotional.  
  
"What will Percy say about this?"  
  
"Nothing. I'm not going to tell him yet. And neither will you."  
  
Madam Greingrass nods, respecting the wishes of her patient. "Please, take it easy, Penelope. Stress is not something you need balancing on your shoulders. And I will be here if you have any questions or concerns." She turns her back towards Penelope and replaces the potion into a locked cabinet high above her head.   
  
"Do you know the sex of the baby?"   
  
Madam Greingrass turns back to the girl. "I'm afraid I don't. We won't know till the beginning of the second trimester."   
  
Penelope sighs, slouching her shoulders. A knot twisting inside her stomach tells her that she shouldn't return to her chambers to see Percy. She can't face him now--he'll know something is wrong. "Can you please call Terence Higgs? I'd like an escort into Camp Delta." She eases herself down from the cold medical table, wordlessly reflecting that she should have never showed up for her check up today, though it really wouldn't have changed anything.  
  
Greingrass nods her head. "Of course I will. And you handled the news very well, better than Marie Amitri, actually. She was devastated. I don't blame her, though. If the baby were a girl, Lucius would have force her to abort it. Thankfully, it's a son. I've told him a million times that nothing can fill the void that Draco's ill-fated death left, but he won't listen." She frowns with tears in her eyes and courteously averts them as Penelope throws her blue robes back on.  
  
"Thank you, Madam." Penelope nods her head once.  
  
"I want to see you in two months, Penny. Owl me for an appointment, please?"   
  
"Of course I will. And please, don't tell Percy."  
  
"I promise."  
  
"I hope so."  
  
And Madam Greingrass remains silent as Penelope slowly leaves, mumbling to herself that Percy can never know about the child. She doesn't think twice about spending her months in Delta with Roger; he's always been there for her. Nothing has changed, and nothing will ever change.   
  
* * *   
  
His footsteps echo endlessly down the corridor, a steady rhythm that blends with the billowing of black robes shuffling against his feet and the marble floor. Reaching the end of the corridor, Igor Karkaroff suddenly drives the large mahogany doors to the Delacours' library open with both hands. He enters in a relentless haste and doesn't jump as the door slams with a great impact, causing everyone to jolt up in their seats, rudely awakened. With three large steps, Karkaroff joins his allies in the middle of the room enclosed with scriptures and throws an old, brown leather book onto the circular table filled with even more books.  
  
"What is this?" a nameless wizard clad in crimson asks, and he reaches for the book before anyone else has the chance. He runs his index finger along the spine. It's warm and soft to his touch and has an ancient writing burnt into the leather. He turns the heavy book over and notices that the cover has a five-pointed star surrounded by a ring of raised rawhide. It's a common symbol in the old magicks known as a pentagram.   
  
"Our salvation," Karkaroff declares, looking over his fellow alliance members with black eyes, as sharp as an hawk's. After being up nearly all night translating the text, purple and blue bags hang under his eyes, contrasting beautifully with his pale skin. The other members are a lot better for wear, as most of them fell asleep during the night, the books that they were studying serving as their pillows. After being refused by the Ministries, they were forced to resort to another plan--now, all they have to do is find it. And Karkaroff just may have found what they need. "An ancient book of magicks, dating back to the time of the first magic users. It holds a ritual that, when properly performed, can release an energy powerful enough to overthrow Malfoy and his Death Eaters."   
  
"What's the catch?" They've learnt that there's always a catch. They'd be disappointed if there wasn't one, actually.  
  
"We need the power of the four founders' heirs to produce a cone of power, and an heir of Merlin to channel it. There's more to the ritual than meets the eye. It's in an ancient script, and I've only managed to decode the basics, but I believe that it may work. The hardest task will be finding those five heirs." Karkaroff speaks with a conviction that doesn't inspire the rest.   
  
"Are we forgetting that Voldemort is dead? He was Slytherin's only heir."  
  
"This book speaks of a brother to Salazar Slytherin, Balthasar," Karkaroff replies.  
  
Severus Snape clears his throat and abruptly stands to leave quietly. All others remain at the business at hand and simply watch as he departs from the library without an explanation. Whatever Severus's reasons are, they have far more important things to discuss.   
  
"It's a plan. Not the best, but it's what we need at the moment." The leader of the Last Alliance glances around, his once youthful face masked with the guilt of a thousand deaths, and deaths that have yet to come. "Our first priority is to find these heirs. Now remember, they could be anywhere and could be anyone--Death Eater or prisoner. Fleur and Karkaroff, there's a mystic in the east; I want you two to visit her and find out what you can. See if her talents can reveal the heirs to us. And, on your travels back, see if we have an alliance with the giants."  
  
"But she's rumoured to be a myth," Karkaroff scoffs.  
  
"She's not. Trust me, and please take Snape with you. You two," he glances at two wizards who are seated closely to each other and wipe sleep from their eyes, "will work with me here. Remember, time is not a luxury. We have family and loved ones in those camps, and I refuse to lose them." He pauses, glancing at each for a few moments with a serious expression. "Look around you; we are our allies and our friends. We just became Britain's last hope. Let's not fail again."   
  



	14. Chapter Fourteen : Riddles

Author's Notes: "Have you ever noticed that there is no thirteenth floor? Well, between me and you, folks, it's on the fourteenth." - a comedian that Moirae has forgotten the name of that she was watching the other night on comedy. I normally don't like doing author's notes, but I have no choice :P There's a few things that I must address: First, a short lesson in Japanese so this upcoming scene isn't totally confusing; Kanji is the third alphabet in Japanese. -san is added to the end of male or female names and -kun to the end of males to show respect and/or friendship. The chamber that the upcoming scene is taking place in what modelled from a ceremonial tea room that I was in last Easter while in Japan. The mystic, Miss Coco . . . her name was inspired by the Drag Queen on "Trick"--Miss Coco Peru. Hmm . . . I think that pretty much covers it. Thanks to those who have read and reviewed. If you are enjoying this, please let me know with a review. If you aren't, please let me know how it could be improved.   
  
  
  
Chapter Fourteen : Riddles  
  
  
  
"I know what it is you seek, but I know not if I can help you," Miss Peru, Japanese mystic, replies with an airy tone about her. She is an elderly woman. Wrinkles grace her olive skin, but her hair is still as black as the night and cascades to the middle of her back. She is wearing a ceremonial silk kimono, navy blue with silver nightingales flying across the fabric. It's tight-fitting as she kneels with her stomach sucked in, resting on her socked feet.   
  
"We weren't sent with high hopes, Peru-san," Severus Snape replies, bowing his head respectfully towards his elder. He is wearing an inexpensive forest green kimono, very plain and void of any decoration. His shoulder-length hair is pulled neatly back into a ponytail, and his chilled hands are folded respectfully on his lap. It's customary to wash them, as well as the face, from a flowing fountain outside before entering the sacred chamber.   
  
Beside him sits a very uncomfortable Igor Karkaroff, in a black kimono that itches his skin. His dark eyes dart around the room, and his white hair is in need of a slight trimming. Next to him sits the beautiful Fleur, in a silver kimono to match her beauty and hair, which hangs loosely over her shoulders. She sits awkwardly in attendance, not knowing what it is she's supposed to be doing.   
  
Miss Peru nods her head in understanding before turning her attention towards a small wooden box sitting before her. Sliding the top open, she places it gently to the left and withdraws her set of tarot cards. She begins to shuffle them, letting her eyes wander to each of the three foreigners before dragging them around the small room. The tan walls are vacant of all ornamentation, save for the tokonoma--an alcove in the corner that houses a large bamboo scroll. Upon the scroll are cherry blossoms that bleed white blood, and black Kanji that spells out a phrase only the mystic can understand.   
  
Miss Peru then places the cards vertically in front of her, and with her index finger of her left hand, she fans them out into a complete circle. "Please, select one card," she instructs the wizards and witch.  
  
Slowly, Fleur leans forward to select a tarot card from the middle of the fan. She places it upside down opposite her, and stares at the two cats intertwined with each other, forming a sort of yin-yang. Secondly, Karkaroff does the same. He glances at his card before dropping it to the floor, scoffing. Severus then selects the top card from the fan, and doesn't have time to look at it before Miss Peru gathers them.   
  
"Thank you." And she places them before her in the form of a diamond, adding a fourth card, the one she singled out, as the peak. She takes the remaining cards and sets them aside in case she must interpret one for the reading.   
  
Turning the card placed at east over first, she reveals The Fool--a card possessing a fiery youth with a fat orange cat biting at his ankles. She gapes at it for several moments in silence, then raises her head to explain the significance to her visitors. "The Fool is a man without direction; he drifts through life undisciplined and frivolous. He resides in the east, but knows nothing about the world around him. Cares and worries that would normally beset a mature person never jade him."   
  
Miss Peru then flips the card placed at the west, and the alliance remains silent for lack of something else to do. The tarot card revealed is The Devil--a clothed figure with two cats, one black and one orange, waiting at his heels. They hiss and scratch, and must be kept within a force field managed by The Devil. Miss Peru frowns, cautiously going about the explanation of this card. "The Devil is seductive and powerful; it is an evil that hides but always shows itself. He has no identity, but I see that your devils have fire and white hair, and one will be tested. Hope that he does not fail, for it would mean your salvation will not come to pass."  
  
"Isn't there more you can tell us?"  
  
"It's irrelevant, Severus," comes Karkaroff's voice. "It's obvious the devil we face is none other than Lucius Malfoy. This is pointless." He crosses his arms, not holding much respect for the good mystic. Divination is something that he has never believed in. Even now, she speaks in riddles that make no sense to him.  
  
"Please continue, Peru-san." Severus shoots Karkaroff an icy glare.  
  
Miss Peru sighs heavily and shakes her head; there have been people who mistrust her third eye, but they've never sat before her and asked for a reading. Nevertheless, she continues and flips the card placed north to reveal The Tower--a large structure in the shape of a cat that cracks at the neck with a bright white light. Without words, she turns the card placed south, which is Death, and places it over the northern card horizontally to form a cross. "Death becomes The Tower. But choose wisely, for this Death represents all the card is not."  
  
Karkaroff coughs, which oddly sounds like crackpot! and shifts position on the cloth floor. Severus rolls his eyes at his companion but does not wish to start an argument, so he remains calm. Drawing his attention back towards the four tarot cards, he finds himself staring at Death, unable to tear his eyes away, although his mind screams for him to do so. Death is a skeletal figure wearing black robes, and he watches Severus intently. With Death is a large cat, skeleton-like as well, which is in a standard hunting position.   
  
Miss Peru glares. "Karkaroff, bite your tongue and show me the respect I deserve, or Jiro-kun will escort you out after he grinds your bones into dust." She cocks her head towards a burly Muggle man who stands in attendance behind the tan screen wall. And with Karkaroff biting his tongue and favouring his bones, Miss Peru again continues.   
  
Gazing for a long time at the cards, drawing power and answers from them, she doesn't blink as she begins to speak in a monotone voice. "You look for directions, but people you will find. South does not wander from his tower. The power calls out to him, but he does not fly. Not anymore. East and west hide at north; one is oblivious and will not help you as things go his way. But years down the road he will falter. And you will make him yours."   
  
"I mean no disrespect, Peru, but how does this help us?" Karkaroff growls.  
  
Miss Peru gazes at them with her misty grey eyes, before taking a small quartz crystal from her pocket and casting it over the four tarot cards. It lands on The Fool, as though it is drawn there by some higher power. "The heir of Hufflepuff has no memory, has no future and no past. He lives now in the present, passing each day with bells on his feet."  
  
Severus sighs, remembering back to a dreadful year. Miss Peru doesn't need to reveal a name, even if she could, the powers wouldn't let her. "Gilderoy Lockhart," Severus mumbles to Fleur and Karkaroff. "East makes perfect sense now. Bloody hell, let's hope that the other heirs aren't as incompetent as he is." He pulls his attention back to Miss Peru, hoping to hear words that correspond with the other heirs, but she shakes her head, knowing what Severus wants before he even asks.  
  
"Unfortunately, I have told you all that I can. It is now up to you to understand." Miss Peru gathers her cards and shuffles them back into the deck, before locking them inside of the box once more. Standing, she holds the sacred vessel with both hands, and bows at the waist to her guests, bidding them farewell. But, as Fleur and Karkaroff depart, crawling backwards through the small gateway that they had entered, Severus doesn't follow. He, for one, expected more from the mystic, for reasons Karkaroff and Fleur don't know.  
  
"Why make Hufflepuff so easy? Why not tell us clearly what it is we seek from Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw? You know!" Severus could tell that she knew more than she was willing to tell them.  
  
Miss Peru smiles without reason, and her eyes drag over Severus with wonder. "You have read me well, young boy. But I fear I cannot tell you more, for if you know too much about your destiny, it will not fall into passing. The future you seek is bright, and within your grasp. But reach out not too far, or you will drop."  
  
"We came here for answers, Peru-san," Severus growls.  
  
"You came for answers indeed." Miss Peru reaches inside of a small pocket and withdraws five silken scarves. Each is neatly folded, and each is a different colour -- green, red, yellow, blue and grey. Handing them to Severus, she continues, "These will help you when the answers are near. North, south, east, west, and five-pointed star. To the north you go now. Shoo, shoo!" She waves her hand to usher him away. "Young boy, the serpent is the caller, and you are merely distantly removed." She begins to leave, walking backwards; it's custom to leave the room as you had entered it.  
  
"Must you speak in riddles?" he calls after her, not eyeing the gift she bestowed upon him, and the hidden magicks that lie deep inside.  
  
"The answers are before you. It is up to you to realise them, before it is too late."  
  
* * *  
  
The Graveyard of Forgotten Souls is the last dwelling place of many rotting corpses, and vanishing lives. Thousands and thousands of gravestones lie scattered across the dying grass, some dating back to the 1700s, while others bear the year 2000 on them. The stones are grey slabs; chipped and battered, with dying flowers at the base. Warm colours of red, orange, yellow and brown paint the trees and drift to the grounds, covering the cemetery in a quilted blanket before the first snowfall of the season. Cool air howls past a young wizard and witch, blowing a draft of crisp leaves by them and across the burial grounds.  
  
"Have you ever made love in a graveyard? I hear it's quite the aphrodisiac."  
  
She glares at him in disgust. "Unfortunately, I have."  
  
Adrian remains silent, knowing that, with her tone and her words, she doesn't want to delve into the details. But, as they pass another row of headstones, the names engraved deep, Rae continues.  
  
"I would hardly call it love making. It's never love making with Marcus. Although," she considers, "it was his idea of romance. He led me to his family mausoleum, and amidst the cobwebs, stench of stale blood and rotting bodies . . ." Rae trails off, sighing heavily with a slight headache beating at her temples.  
  
Adrian grits his teeth, but only angry words come to mind, and he refuses to voice those. They walk in silence for several moments, until Rae stops abruptly and curses lightly. Adrian turns only to see her kneel before a grave, clearing dead leaves from the fresh soil. Taking a moonstone from one of the many pockets on her robes, she places it on top of the tombstone.   
  
  
Leland Ivo Derrick  
  
October 15, 1977 to May 13, 2000   
  
  
Adrian drops to his knees next to her, running his hand down her back in a comforting way. "Rae?"   
  
But the young woman's only response is an annoyed, "Shh!"   
  
After what seems like an eternity of tedious silence, Rae finally stands and Adrian follows, considering that maybe he should never have asked to come with her. "Do you do this every year?" And they continue walking among the sea of graves.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Come to the cemetery in respect."  
  
Rae nods. "Ever since I was fifteen years old."  
  
"I've never even thought about it. I haven't even been to their graves since they were buried." It's something he now feels shame for. "Both of my parents were murdered by Death Eaters; my mum six years ago and my father before I was even born." Adrian saunters faster to catch up to Rae and takes her hand in his, but not before glancing around to ensure that they are truly alone. "I don't even know where their graves would be."  
  
Rae glances up and smiles warmly. "Coming here for ten consecutive years does have its advantage; I know almost every gravestone's place. I'm sure I can take you to them." She consciously chooses to ignore Adrian's short drabble of his family past, for she knows too much about it already, possibly more than Adrian himself. They turn; travelling down a slight slope as the dates on the gravestones decrease.   
  
"How did your father die?" Adrian suddenly asks. Glancing at the brunette, he quickly wishes that he could take back the words.   
  
"That's awfully rude of you."  
  
"I'm sorry, it's just been something I've been wondering for a while."  
  
By the time Rae answers, they've already reached her father's last dwelling place. "An Auror got him. Exactly twenty years ago. He was one of the Death Eaters with Voldemort when Lily and James Potter were killed, and Harry slipped through the cracks. That's why I always come to the cemetery on Halloween." She kneels before her father's grave, tracing her fingers along the chipped name, as she does every year.  
  
  
Jamie Sean Landon  
  
February 16, 1954 to October 31, 1980  
  
  
Rae takes a handful of dried pink rose petals from her pocket, and spreads them over the compressed soil. Bowing her head, she closes her eyes and begins a silent prayer, one that she's used for ten years now. Adrian remains silent as Rae pays her respects, but before he knows it, she's crawling back to her feet.   
  
Smiling, she turns to face him, and asks, "What was your father's name?"  
  
"Cayne Corbett."   
  
Rae furrows her eyebrows; that name sounds familiar, but she can't place from where at the moment. She doesn't really want to, either. She shrugs it off and turns left to walk deeper among the graves, her black robes rustling along with the leaves. Passing the Malfoy mausoleum, a large stone structure that only the wealthiest can afford, Rae and Adrian notice that the Potter mausoleum has been dishonoured, partially torn down, and the sound of a ghostly choir wails deep inside. If it were any other family they might wander in for a closer look and a sense of exhilaration, but they're afraid of what they might find, so they keep walking.  
  
"I remember seeing a Corbett's grave over there." Rae points in the general west direction. "That's where we should start looking. Hopefully it won't be too far." Adrian nods, takes Rae's hand with his again, and follows her down a steep slope towards another spread of graves. As they walk, Adrian stares absentmindedly at the names chiselled into the stone--William the Bloody being the one that catches his attention. He opens his mouth to ask Rae about it, but decides not to when she stops and ushers him towards a grave:  
  
  
Cayne Adrian Corbett  
  
February 28, 1954 to September 30, 1975  
  
  
Adrian falls to his knees before the grave; his mother never told him that he was named from his father's middle name, or that they shared the same birthdays. But then again, his mum never talked about Cayne. Adrian assumed it was because the topic was just too painful. For the silent moments, Adrian merely stares at the grave. No words, no form of prayer, come to mind. He's never been the spiritual type; he tends to believe in what the physical eye can see. When he does respectfully bow his head, he's interrupted by another string of curses coming from Rae, and he immediately glances up, only to see Marcus Flint striding towards them, black-robed and grey-cloaked.   
  
Adrian yelps in an unmanly way, jumping to his feet.  
  
"I thought I told you to stay in my chambers." Marcus approaches Rae without a word of greeting. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks spitefully angry at each of them. "What sort of woman do I have if she doesn't even listen to me?" He raises an eyebrow at her, regarding her as though she is at fault. Of course, when it comes to Marcus, he is always right, even if he once believed the world to be flat.  
  
"You have a woman with her own mind, Marcus," Rae replies matter-of-factly as she moves away from Adrian before their closeness puts any ideas into Marcus's thick skull. "A woman who won't bow down before you, and say 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir' at your every beck and call." And maybe one of these days, he will actually listen to her.  
  
Marcus raises his lip in anger but responds with some carefully selected words. "If I wanted any cum back from you, I'd pump it out of your stomach, Rae." He takes a menacing step towards her, and she subconsciously backs down. "Why are you two prats together in a graveyard?"   
  
"Paying our respects," Adrian replies defiantly.  
  
Marcus snorts, as his eyes graze with the name on the tombstone. "Corbett?" He strains to recall were he has heard that name before. It lands on the tip of his tongue, and he manages to attach a killer to his best mate's father. "Isn't that the bloke your mother slaughtered, Rae?"  
  
"Sod off, Marcus!" Rae yells, wondering how in the bloody hell Marcus knew about this family secret. It's something she thought would jeopardise her hidden relationship with Adrian, so she was prepared to take the identity of his father's murderer to her grave. Even if the emotional pain was just as great as Adrian's vendetta for revenge.   
  
Blood drains from Adrian's face, and he stares in disbelief at the woman he loves, the woman he believed didn't shield secrets from him. "Bloody hell. You knew?" He glares at Marcus and Rae, addressing both with equal anger boiling in his blood. "You bloody knew who killed my father!" Adrian rounds on his heels, he can't stand to speak another word to either of them or be around them when something like this hung in the air. "Fuck, is the whole world conspiring against me?"  
  
Marcus crosses his arms and smirks. "No, just your mates."  
  
Rae gawks at Marcus, her eyes narrowing in distaste at the man who seems to be incapable of emotion. "Adrian!" She attempts to chase after the unusually hot-headed Slytherin, but a firm hand over her upper arm stops her before she can get far.   
  
"Sit still, woman. Don't get your knickers in a twist; it'll be all that much harder to get them off later. I'll get him."   
  
And without a chance for Rae to respond, Marcus has dashed past her with no second thought. Catching up with Adrian at the Potter mausoleum, he reaches out to grab him on the shoulder, but Adrian's eyes are quicker, and he drills Marcus on the side of his head with a balled fist in pure rage.   
  
"Sod off, Flint. You're supposed to be me best mate! How could you have known who set the killing curse on my father and just not tell me!? Is it beyond your naïve trollish comprehension that I might have wanted to avenge his death, defend his honour? That's the only fucking reason I became a Death Eater!" Adrian shrieks, fists at his sides, ready to attack again if the opportunity arises. He stands his ground before Marcus, breathing deeply and staring him directly in the eye. An ebony fringe of hair falls before his blue eyes, and irritated, he brushes it aside.   
  
But Marcus smugly crosses his arms, remembering why he and nearly every other Death Eater considers emotions to be a weakness. "You speak of avenging his death and defending his honour when you can't even defend your own. You want to act without forethought? Then kill Rae. It was her mother who killed your father--an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Kill the disobedient whore."  
  
But the last thing that runs through Adrian's mind is killing Rae. She is not responsible for her mother's actions; he would never take it out on her. "That's some crazy troll logic! Just because Aileen took something from me, doesn't mean I must take something from her! Besides, if you are even capable of loving someone, you supposedly love Rae. You'd kill me if I touched her."  
  
"And I'd enjoy doing it, too."  
  
"Sod off, Flint. Just leave me be."  
  
Marcus is not going to listen to his junior, even if it is Adrian. With an unruffled expression plastered across his intimidating mug, he continues to taunt Adrian with words. "Sure. Run, just like your whore of a mother. You couldn't save her. You stood still, scared, like the fucking coward you are when Lord Voldemort set the task before a Death Eater he could trust. You failed when she wouldn't join us. It's a bloody wonder why Lord Voldemort spared your life. You should have died that night."  
  
But Adrian remembers why his life was spared, and would never tell Marcus about the circumstances. "At least I know who killed my mother. And trust me, I'll kill Weasley for it one day," Adrian promises, mentally biding his time to cast the killing curse on the redheaded snake. Those who wait will be rewarded in the end; it's something his mother taught him, and mothers always know best.   
  
"I know who killed my Muggle-fucking mother and her two-point-five Mudblood brats. I was there when I cast the curse and impaled them upon her precious white picket fence. And I watched as Weasley killed yours with a smile in his soul, a bounce in his step, and a twinkle in his eye." Marcus takes a step back, his black combat boots crunching the leaves.  
  
Rae watches with worried blue eyes from afar, shuddering against a chill that surfs down her spine and wades through her body.  
  
Any reply that Adrian has is drowned out by a hoarse cry of,   
  
"Ring around the rosies,   
a pocket full of posies,   
ashes! Ashes!   
We all fall down!"   
  
emanating from the depths of the Potter mausoleum. The voice is as cold and eerie as death personified, echoing shrill and high through the cemetery and to their ears.   
  
"The power is my power, it is as energy. It hasn't decreased or increased, and you cannot make it. The one who controls it is the descendant of the heir. Excalibur's power shall be theirs to wield, and theirs alone. Four to channel, and one to receive. Versed in ancient magicks they will have to be, for Avalon will call through the wind and past the trees to the hearts of the founders' blood. If the walls are crumbled and dark tides wash in, the powers inherited will be all that stands alone. For it isn't in the houses that the power lies, but in the hearts, and the mind, and the soul. Spread on the trees and in the leaves, life is the powers that they seek. For it doesn't matter if Hogwarts falls though the years and through the tears, the heirs are always there to take the pain."   
  



	15. Chapter Fifteen : Reunions

Chapter Fifteen : Reunions  
  
  
  
Camp Alpha is unusually dark on this afternoon of mid-January; any light that is supposed to shine has been blotted out by the grey clouds overhead. One figure rests near the red brick wall of the camp, which is tall and has silver barbed wire strung across the top. He is a short man, stout and important, wearing black robes, which, by the insignia sewn on the upper right arm, are the robes that most Death Eaters have chosen to wear. They are made from a heavy cotton fabric, but do not shield his skin from the harsh bursts of cold air and snow that break against his body, which has been permanently frozen for the last few months.  
  
The dark sky casts hoary shadows across the camp, and most prisoners have taken refuge in their buildings. Most Death Eaters have barred themselves inside of the headquarters that stands in the centre of Alpha. With cups of cocoa, strong black coffee, or sugarless Earl Grey tea in hand, they reminisce about the old times, or have unsophisticated talks about which bird they nailed last week.   
  
This wizard chooses not to be apart of it all.  
  
For he waits for his connection. A connection that has vast white wings and bright yellow eyes. And when this owl in question does arrive, she lands gracefully onto the wizard's shoulder without the fluttering of a single wing, and drops a letter into his waiting hands.  
  
The letter has no markings on the off-white envelope, except for a writing that is rushed and painted in black ink. It spells out "Dear Dad."  
  
* * *  
  
Over the orange and pink horizons of Romania, three wizards clad in simple brown travelling robes Apparate with the snap that is accustomed to the magic. Winds howl and scream around them, blowing the loose skirts of their robes around their feet, causing the act of walking to prove most difficult. The yellow sphere that is the sun sets behind the tallest of the winter mountains with the greeting of the waning moon. They walk forward through the dense green foliage towards a small, yet loutish, village surrounded by a barrier of mountains, snow and trees. Only a sign painted chaotically with dark red letters names it: caution, death comes to those who dare to pass these boarders.   
  
Severus stifles a disrespectful laugh. "Looks like that oaf Hagrid has been busy." He crosses his arms, regarding the few backwards letters and misspelled words with much appall, and a sneer plastered across his thin lips.  
  
Just as the party sets forth once more, their black boots crunching the freshly fallen snow, a dark shadow flies overhead and casts a fleeting darkness over them. The three wizards dismiss it, quite foolishly, as a cloud. That is, until a deafening roar ricochets through their eardrums, shaking their bodies as well as the ground they walk uneasily upon.  
  
"Norbert! Down boy!" the deep voice of the old groundskeeper seems to boom from all four of the directions. "Yeh can eat 'em later!"  
  
Fleur nervously takes a step away from the Norwegian Ridgeback known as Norbert, only to be bounced back by a solidly built wall behind her. A startled scream escapes her lips as the wall proves not to be what it is, and a hand grabs the frail Veela by the shoulders. But the grip is not one that intends to hurt.   
  
"Who dare trespasses in ze village of ze giants?" a voice, though not as deep as the first, asks. It originates from behind the terrified Fleur.  
  
Just before Fleur realises who the voice belongs to, the large dragon lands with a few of his kin close on his tail. Following the dragons is a three-headed dog that Severus recognises as Fluffy, the underworld mutt that guarded the Philosopher's Stone, and a ratty black dog that looks as though he's about to run back the other way with his tail hidden between his bony legs.   
  
Fleur's the first one who is able to find her voice, and she proceeds to explain their presence to the two unrecognisable half-giants. "We're 'ere to see Rubeus 'Agrid and Olympe Maxime. We were sent 'ere on a meession to recruit ze giant's 'elp." She steps forward and turns around, letting the hand fall from her shoulder. And a few moments later, her jaw drops as well.  
  
Hagrid--a bearded man who stands nearly eight feet tall--dismounts from Norbert, a big grin appearing ear to ear as the travelling wizards remove their hoods. "Professor Snape! Good ter see yeh! What business are yeh here fer?"  
  
Severus glares, "Were you not listening?" he snaps, patience wearing thin. In his opinion, this mission should have ended already. "We need to know that when we make our move against the Death Eaters, you will be there--" he pauses, a black streak, short and panting, catching his eye and disrupting his attention. He scornfully wonders when animagus Sirius Black arrived; shouldn't he be helping the two they left behind in the Delacour Mansion?  
  
Before Hagrid can respond, Severus opens his mouth to speak again.  
  
"Black. Stop sniffing Fang's arse, you're not that convincing of a dog." Severus has never been that fond of Sirius Black, not since their school days when Sirius used Remus Lupin in an attempt to tear Severus to multiple and unrecognisable pieces.  
  
Sirius reverts to his human form. "Shove it up your arse, Snape, or I will." He is a tall man, although he has not gained in height since his escape from Azkaban in 1993. His black hair, once long and scraggly, is now short-cropped and healthy. Scruff enhances his handsome features, and it's apparent he has not shaved in a few days. His robes, which are as black as his hair and twice as clean, fit loosely to his body, as he prefers them. The one thing that has not changed since his days at Hogwarts is his smile, which is one of a never-ending boyish charm.  
  
"What are you doing here? You should be helping research the magicks." Severus turns his nose up at Sirius, expecting him to have turned renegade against the leader of the Last Alliance's orders. The others only watch, curious or amused smirks painted across their faces at the situation unravelling before their eyes.  
  
"That's why I'm here," Sirius snaps rudely. "There's a book hidden away deep in Romania that belonged to Merlin himself. I'm here to retrieve that book, and recruit the help of the giants, and maybe even a few of the tamer dragons." He folds his arms, proud with his power to always make Severus angry in one way or another.  
  
"That's why we're here!" Severus declares, his temper rising as he leans forward in an attempt to intimidate Sirius. How dare the Last Alliance give his mission to someone else, especially someone as annoyingly immature as Sirius. But, then again, the leader has always favoured the escaped convict.   
  
"We figured you needed help," Sirius scoffs nonchalantly.   
  
Fleur chokes down a laugh at the insult of Severus's competency.  
  
"Where is this book, then?" Karkaroff growls, defending his friend.  
  
Sirius sighs, slouching his shoulders in disgruntled defeat. "That's the problem--I was hoping the giants could help. They might have heard something about Merlin's personal Book of Shadows. All other leads have led me to this exact spot." Sirius stamps his foot once, his boots slipping into the snow.   
  
"Maybe you should start digging!" Severus barks.  
  
"Okay, yeh two, break it up, or Fluffy's gonna have 'im one snack, an' Norbert gets the other," Hagrid intercepts, facing the ire of the two lifelong rivals, but not caring. Cracking his knuckles loudly, he then adjusts the many furs that are draped over his massive frame. "Anyways, I think I've heard about that book. . . . I may have put it into junior's crib one night to keep 'im quiet."  
  
"Rubeus," Olympe Maxime--a woman who has recently redefined wealth--warns, but she regards her lover with unwavering affection. "I've told you not to leave Orayn alone with books. You know what 'appens."   
  
"But this book I can't even open. I--I figured it'd be safe," Hagrid mutters sulkily.  
  
"Junior? Orayn?" asks Fleur with mild confusion in her posh voice.  
  
"Well, Fleur, you see, when two people love each other zey make ze conscious decision to . . ."  
  
"I already know that, Madam!" Fleur's cheeks turn apple with embarrassment, knowing where that conversation with Maxime was going. "But why didn't you tell me? I thought you and I were friends, and not to mention I was in your last graduating class. You were even at my wedding." In a smaller voice, though just as strongly, she adds, "you should be able to trust me."   
  
"Oh yes, Roger," Maxime remembers as she smiles warmly. "How is ze boy?"  
  
"Dead," Fleur says bluntly, not sparing the subject at all. She tries to hide the salty tears filling her blue eyes as she subconsciously plays with her wedding band, which she promised Roger she would never take off.   
  
"Would yeh like ter meet him?" offers Hagrid, grinning. The exchange between Maxime and Fleur doesn't reach his ears, for if it had, he might not have changed the subject as he did. "Orayn is me pride and joy."  
  
Fleur agrees, glad for this interruption and chance to bond with her old Headmistress. The women go sauntering off towards a home with a thatched roof and walls of clay; idle chitchat is all that's between them.   
  
"Now," Hagrid turns to the wizards who continue to shoot death glares towards each other, "yeh said somethin' about a book and needin' our help?"  
  
Over a large cup of Hagrid's special tea and crumpets, Severus, Karkaroff, and Sirius explain the plan with the five heirs, the state of Britain since Malfoy has taken charge, the matters of the Last Alliance, and the International Ministry of Magic who refuses to act.  
  
"Where did you get the book?" Sirius inquires once their explanation has ceased, and he places his rock-hard crumpet back into the basket that no one else dared to touch.  
  
"Ireland. A fella' in the pub sold it to me fer a few drinks. He said that if I needed more information, I was to contact him at the Castle Caulfield." Hagrid shrugs, not seeing how that is important. What he doesn't know is that only an heir of Merlin or someone close would be in possession of that book. In this case, a nobleman was in possession, and now a half-giant oaf owns it. "I remember he said his name was Tyrone Donnelly," he adds after a second thought.  
  
"Donnelly? That sounds familiar." Sirius strokes his scruffy beard, deep in thought. Beside him, Karkaroff and Severus muffle their chuckles at this cliché action, only to be totally silenced by a glare from Sirius.   
  
"The Donnellys are well-known alchemists," Severus informs them matter-of-factly once he has calmed his laughter. "They discovered the wolfsbane potion, not to mention other remedies fit for werewolves. Plus, they worked on several theories for the Philosopher's Stone."  
  
"I know that," Sirius retorts. "Remus told me."  
  
And Severus mumbles something that, thankfully, Sirius does not hear.  
  
". . . James's mother came from a Donnelly blood line, if I remember correctly."  
  
But this time, Severus can't keep his mouth shut and decides to take another cheap shot at Sirius. The hungry mutt and dragon are also forgotten, or have been pushed from his mind. "I guess those years in Azkaban didn't help you much, did they?" He smirks and crosses his arms smugly over his chest.  
  
Rage boils inside of Sirius, and his anger explodes into words of a venomous nature. "I took your sentence--you owe me." After a moment, he decides to add, "Have a little faith here, Sevvy, if you are capable of such a thing," in a softer tone.  
  
"Fluffy! C'mere boy!" Hagrid calls, not giving the wizards a word of warning about the hungry three-headed canine. "It's dinner time!"  
  
If looks could kill, Hagrid would certainly be dead. And to the side, all they can hear are Karkaroff's sniggers at their immense immaturity. The two of them calm down, as Karkaroff finally attends, without a moment's delay, to the business they travelled here for.  
  
"Hagrid, can we count on the giants and the dragons for help?"  
  
"Of course yeh can! Anything ter help. Such fine wizards as yerselves, even though yer immaturity levels are high, can use as much help as you can get ter take down Malfoy and those Death Eaters. Of course, those dragons only obey me an' Charlie Weasley." Always a loyalist to Dumbledore's memory, Hagrid is, and it's something that will come in most handy in the future.   
  
Severus nods. "Perfect. We'll send any information you may need with the hyperactive nuisance, Pigwidgeon. And," Severus adds seriously, "never insult me like that. Sirius is fine, but never me."  
  
Sirius balls his fists, "Why I oughta . . . !"  
  
* * *  
  
The black-robed wizard, still clutching the letter from his son in his gloved hands, raps thrice on the door to Building Theta. It's several seconds that he's shivering in the cold till someone--a handsome young man with many freckles and crystal eyes--finally answers.  
  
"Gene Avery," he says with surprised announcement as he folds his arms over his broad chest.  
  
"Charles Weasley. May I come in, please?" Gene quickly pockets the over-read letter before Charlie, or any of the other family members, ask too many questions of which the answers do not concern all of them. The one Gene worries about is the youngest, Ginny. She may be a lovely young woman now, at the age of eighteen, but her curiosity has never been fully satisfied. She's been known to constantly ask questions even though there are no answers to them.   
  
"Of course. It's not our place to refuse a Death Eater," Charlie replies grimly, as he stands aside to let Gene enter, his right hand never straying from his wand tucked safely in the folds of his heavy robes.  
  
"Please don't think of me as a Death Eater--I am here on business not concerning them," Gene informs, knowing perfectly well that all distrusting eyes are fixated upon him as he enters. Nevertheless, it doesn't matter. Glancing around the sizeable building, he notices that the curtains, which are a deep shade of crimson, are partially burnt at the ends, and the ashes still grace the windowsill. White candles are scattered across the room as stars, and each of the flames flickers with the soul of a deceased loved one. The floorboards are a cracked, rotting wood, and an old area rug, black to hide stains, covers most.   
  
Fred and George sit together in the corner, while Ron, Ginny and a bushy-haired woman camp near the makeshift fireplace, which serves only to heat the room in the colder months. All of the Weasleys, as well as the witch by the name of Hermione Granger, wear thick robes of red or light grey, and most of their eyes are now sunken and comatose blue or brown. Those who haven't given up hope never had any in the beginning, and those who had hope found it quickly fleeing on Death's wings.   
  
"I'd like to recruit the help of a Weasley."  
  
"For what?" Charlie raises an eyebrow, stepping protectively between his family and Gene. He's heard about "tasks" that the Death Eaters have called prisoners forth for; some are considered lucky if they survive with most of their limbs, and at least one of their eyes.   
  
"Until I know who I am dealing with, I cannot divulge that information. This could end up in my death if it were to fall into the wrong hands, and the conditions of Britain would fall further." Gene glances around, waiting for one of the six wizards to volunteer themselves for the unknown, and possibly deadly, mission.  
  
Ron immediately stands; he's always been hot-headed in matters such as these. "I will." He runs his pale, slender fingers through his fire-red hair, yanking on the thin tresses and staring at Gene compliantly.   
  
"Ron!" Hermione shrieks as she grabs for her lover's drab sleeve, but she doesn't pull him back. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into!" Her tone is one of a disapproving mother figure, although fear is what holds her back.  
  
"I assure you, Miss Granger, that my intentions are honourable." And to further emphasize his point, he bows at his waist towards the young brunette.   
  
"Hermione, please. This might be a chance to make a difference in our lives, and I won't sit still without acting because of what may or may not happen. Besides, anything that goes against the Death Eaters, and my brother," he speaks the last part with spite, "will be something that I jump at the chance for." Ron shakes Hermione's loose grasp from his arm.   
  
Turning to Gene, he comes to a decision that his family and lover disapprove of, and adds, "What is it you need done, Mister Avery?"  
  
Gene grins broadly, pleased very much with his volunteer. He's heard about this Weasley from Percy, of course, but most of the conversation was a pleasant one. "Please come with me, then. And," he averts his attention back towards the others of the large family, his face a mask of false solemnity, "don't worry about him, his sacrifice will be for the greater good."  
  
Their faces drop.  
  
"Of course," Gene quickly adds, rectifying his mistake, "I'm only joking." He forces a jovial laugh befitting of his good nature and furthers the assurance about Ron's safety. "Ron's life will not be in danger, he is merely one of the few prisoners I must talk to today. Have faith in my objectives, my dear Weasleys. And I guarantee that your lives will change for it. Now, come along, son. The portkey is about to leave without us, and Roger Davies has a date with a letter from a lost love."  
  
Ron glances back silently at his family before joining the Death Eater he must now put his trust and faith in. The streets of Alpha are empty, and hollow echoes sift through the sleet. It's not every day that a Death Eater decides to help the good guys, especially one as old as Gene. But it was Gene who fought for that morale-boosting Quidditch game. Ron shivers against the baffling situation, and pulls his cloak closer.   
  
"What I'm about to say to you must be kept to yourself at all costs, do you understand?" Gene quickly glances at Ron before casting his eyes back towards the icy street on which they walk. The redhead nods in agreement, and Gene continues abruptly, "There is still hope for Britain. Our lives may lie in the hands of the Last Alliance, a small faction of wizards who fought alongside the Regime Alliance in the earlier years. You see, Ron, there is still hope. But only if we play our cards right, and we've been dealt the worst hand possible. All you need to know is that there are powerful wizards on our side, and the network must start here, shaded from Death Eaters' eyes."  
  
"Why do you need me?" Ron raises an eyebrow in suspicion as he slows his pace. If Lucius Malfoy or any other loyal Death Eaters were to discover this little act of treason, the consequences would be dire. Ron can't imagine that Gene has many other Death Eaters on his side, not when the times are so good for them.  
  
"I'll tell you at a later date. Right now, we must be going."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"If that was for you to know, I would have told you. Your only worry at the moment is whether or not you can trust me," Gene responds curtly, having faith that Ron wouldn't want the deaths of many of the Regime Alliance to be in vain. Dumbledore, Harry, and all others died for a reason, and this is now it.   
  
The twinkle of hope in Ron's eyes says it all. "If it means getting our old lives back, then I will put all of my faith in you. Lead the way." And, suddenly, everything starts to look up.  
  
* * *   
  
It's dusk when two identified wizards come walking down the main street of Camp Delta towards the building that harbours Roger Davies. Two guards, one with sandy blond hair and the other bald as cue ball, stand quickly at attention, wands in hand. They are there by order of Percy to guard Penelope, who has spent the last three months here, and she still hasn't spoken to Percy about the child that is growing inside of her womb.   
  
"What business do you have here?" asks the fair-haired Death Eater.  
  
"Stand down, Finnigan. Our business is our own," Gene says sharply. The wizard known as Seamus Finnigan, former Gryffindor, shoots his partner, Augustus Rookwood, a nod of acknowledgement that Gene is free to come and go as he pleases. They are under him, after all. "Leave." And both depart in opposite directions and awkward silences.   
  
Gene knocks once, and without waiting for an answer, he lets himself, and Ron, in. "Davies?" His voice echoes through the empty room.  
  
Penelope Clearwater, four and a half months pregnant, waddles into the room. "May I help you?" She places her hand on her stomach, and sits uneasily in a navy blue chair. The furnishings in the living room are elaborate and expensive, most were gifts to Roger from Penelope herself. The floorboards are new and washed, and the place has a certain Death Eater appeal to it.  
  
"No, you may not. I'm here to speak with Roger Davies."  
  
"About what? The Last Alliance?"  
  
Colour drains from Gene's face, unsure if he should trust the lady of a Death Eater. One wrong person holding information such as this would make matters worse; one slip of the tongue would ruin all Gene and his son have worked for. "What did he tell you?"  
  
"Enough," is Penelope's reply, straight and to the point.  
  
And Roger chooses this time to enter, descending from the upper level, dressed in deep purple robes, his damp black hair slicked back. "You told a Weasley, but I can't tell my best friend?"  
  
"Ron is well-connected in Camp Alpha. We will need his family's help," Gene justifies. "I was told to recruit them by order of the leader of the Last Alliance, and I cannot say the same for you."  
  
"So you're here, why?" Roger and Gene may be working together, but that does not mean that Gene is welcome at any time.  
  
"Read this letter, it's all explained." Gene hands Roger the letter from his son.  
  
  
Dear Dad,  
  
The supplies we discussed will be delivered through the night of the full moon. Use them sparingly, for we don't know when we can send another shipment. Snape, Karkaroff, and Fleur were sent to Japan; we hope to hear their findings when they reach Hagrid in Romania. Sirius also travelled there. Unfortunately, we have not had luck with the International Ministry, and our plans have changed drastically. We have now started seeking the heir of Merlin, but we need to find the heirs of the Hogwarts founders first. If you have any other thoughts, please tell us.  
  
Love,  
  
Your son  
  
  
Roger's jaw drops and his skin pales drastically in contrast to his dark hair at the mention of his wife's name. Turning to Gene with the expression of being stabbed a thousand times over, and with tears in his eyes, the only words he manages to whisper are, "You knew?"  
  
"I'm as surprised as you are. I thought the lovely Delacour died defending my son."  
  
The heavy flapping of feathers beating against the air drowns any response from Roger that has yet to be spoken out. A large eagle owl carrying one piece of parchment between his claws swoops down, dropping a letter into Gene's outstretched hand before flying away just as fast. Shaking, Gene unrolls the parchment. He recognises the owl as belonging to his lifetime friend, Lucius Malfoy, and it rarely carries good news. He silently reads the letter before placing in into his pocket with the other, and turns towards his audience.   
  
"Marie Amitri has gone into premature labour."   
  
  



	16. Chapter Sixteen : Avalon

Chapter Sixteen : Avalon  
  
  
  
She squints her dark eyes against the brightness of the fluorescent infirmary lights, and takes a deep breath before she tries to sit up in the firm bed, but finds herself unable to move. Her back hurts, that's the first thing she notices, and secondly is the burning sensation in her lower abdomen. She remembers that after she gave that last push, she had fainted. Either that, or the medicine that Madam Greingrass had given her to subdue the pain had put her to sleep shortly afterwards.   
  
Her thoughts are floating around her mind like puzzle pieces that need to be connected to one another. She relaxes, and her eyes drift closed once more.   
  
One piece of that puzzle has Lucius painted upon the cardboard, and Marie can't remember if he was present during the delivery. On an afterthought, she considers that he probably was. After all, the birth of his son is something that he wouldn't want to miss; it's what he's been looking forward to since Marie had told him of the child growing inside of her.   
  
Another piece of the jigsaw that floats to her mind's eye has Draco sketched upon it. Silver hair and green Quidditch robes, he has the Golden Snitch, but his hands are decomposed. Leathery and rotting, she mentally watches as Draco turns to bone, and then to dust in her mind.   
  
One night shortly after the fateful Quidditch game, Marie remembers that Lucius had told her that his son would never learn to fly. Would never play Quidditch. Not as Draco did.   
  
Lucius has forbidden his unborn son to do many of the "dangerous activities" that Draco took part in and loved. The child will never touch a broomstick, and he will never travel down to the camps. There will be women who will wait on him, and house elves that will serve him. Now, he is Lucius's only son, and should be treated as such. Marie knows better than to argue with this. If it were her son who was killed, she believes she would be acting in a similar fashion.  
  
Marie's first-born son was born one month premature. Many had worried that the child would be stillborn, but thankfully, that wasn't the case. He was born healthy, weighing six pounds and three ounces, and with a full head of hair contrasting white snow. His eyes were a piercing red colour, and black lines outlined them as eyeliner. They were a shade of red that was as dark and beautiful as newly spilt blood.   
  
She can imagine that word will spread quickly among the Death Eaters about the "demon child" who would follow in his father's footsteps. Tonight, many toasts will be performed in the Death Eater castles and housings around Britain, and they'll all cheer the good name of Fyre Malfoy.   
  
* * *  
  
"How. could you send Sirius to Romania knowing perfectly well that you sent Karkaroff, Fleur, and myself there for the same reasons?" Severus bursts through the doors of the Delacour Library where the leader of the Last Alliance sits with a collection of books and parchment before him. The travellers four had just returned minutes before using a portkey that Sirius had set up. With them, they brought Merlin's Book of Shadows, and that's what Severus has in his hands, as well as his angry words on the tip of his tongue.  
  
The commanding wizard looks up from his papers and drops his eagle quill. "What?" He furrows his eyebrows and stares at Severus with wide and confused azure eyes. He leans forward, clasping his hands together, and rests his elbows on the table. The robes he wears are grey polyester, same issue as the ones Severus changed into upon his return.   
  
"You sent Sirius to Romania to recruit the help of the giants!" Severus growls lowly, throwing the heavy magick journal onto the table. It lands with a loud thud and the settling of dust.  
  
A chuckle comes from the wizard before Severus as he picks up the journal and studies it. "I only sent Sirius to retrieve this book. I never told him anything about recruiting the giant's help. I knew that was your mission, I wouldn't disrespect you by giving it to someone else, Snape." He doesn't look at Severus as he speaks; instead, he taps three times on the book with his long wand. A golden spark flies from the wand, but nothing of relevance happens. He slouches his shoulders and pouts in mock frustration.   
  
Severus doesn't say anything, realising angrily that Sirius purposely played him for his own selfish amusement. Just like Sirius, Severus considers as he shakes his head. Grumbling a few words about killing Sirius and burying the pieces around Marseilles, Severus stiffly turns to leave with his fists clenched at his side, ready to maim Sirius.  
  
"Don't kill him, Snape." The voice comes amused.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because," is only the reply the blue-eyed wizard gives, but he then decides that that probably isn't good enough for Severus to halt his actions. "We just may need his help in opening this book." He turns Merlin's journal over, running his middle finger along the engraved stars, moons and pentacles. There's a phrase also engraved around the outer edge of the leather, but the letters are not of the English language. In fact, he doesn't know of a language that those symbols belong to, and he himself is a talented linguist. A concerned "Hmmm . . ." comes from the commander as he realises that he just read the passage, when, obviously, he isn't supposed to be able to. "Did you notice--"   
  
"What about Fleur or the other one?" Severus cuts off, not realising that the wizard is speaking.  
  
The interruption doesn't matter to him; he can always get back to the passage later when he and Severus aren't having this discussion, which they've had a lot lately. " 'The other one' is resting. You should know that. And, Fleur requested some time to spend with Gabrielle, so I granted her a few days of R&R, effective once she returned from Romania."  
  
"And you did this without consulting the rest of us?"  
  
"There's nothing of importance happening. I saw no need to consult you and the others."  
  
Severus sneers inwardly.   
  
"Now, since we are on the subject of Romania and your travels, what did you hear from the good mystic?" He sets the Book of Shadows aside, mentally reminding himself to bring it up later. He is, after all, eager to hear what Severus, Fleur, and Karkaroff uncovered while they were away for these past few months.  
  
Severus shrugs and gives the short version. "Peru-san spoke in riddles, but that should have been expected. The heir of Hufflepuff is what she was most helpful with. She described Gilderoy Lockhart perfectly. The heir of Ravenclaw, as the heir of Hufflepuff, was not sorted into his blood house, and he just may be a Death Eater."  
  
An annoyed scowl comes from the commanding wizard as he remembers back to his second year at Hogwarts. Lockhart was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, taking after Quirrell. Such dreadful times his second year was, he doesn't really want to deal with that incompetent git Lockhart again. Unlike Lockhart though, he liked Quirrell. A different fellow, strange karma surrounded him. He also liked that Flitwick fellow, an eccentric old busy-body he was, and the head of Ravenclaw.   
  
"If we are done with that business now, Snape, I believe I just may have noticed something that you'll want to see . . ." He leans for the book and passes it to Severus, his grey robes chafing against the pile of parchments, causing some to glide elegantly to the stone marble floor. "Can you read that passage?"  
  
Severus reaches for the book and, raising an eyebrow, responds flatly that he cannot understand it. "How could anyone?" he adds. "It's in an ancient language of magick that has been lost to witches and wizards for thousands of years. I myself have studied it, but the knowledge surrounding it is very limited. No wizard alive can understand it, even if they studied it all their life."  
  
The superior nods, "Yes, of course. Get Sirius in here now, please."  
  
Severus raises his lip in suspicion, but doesn't ask questions. Spinning on his heels, he leaves with the skirts of his robes billowing behind him and footsteps sounding though the library. A few minutes later as the other wizard merely sat still and inspected the closed book, Severus returns with Sirius, who is adjusting the grey robes that he has just changed into.  
  
"What's the problem, mate?" Sirius asks casually, cracking each of his knuckles separately before moving onto his neck, all the while keeping his violet eyes--a colour that has never been seen in any other human besides his mother, grandfather, and great grandfather--locked on the wizard who sits at the table.   
  
"This book," is the response. "Can you read that passage?"   
  
"No." Sirius shrugs, giving the book a moment's glance. "I can't imagine that anyone could."  
  
"Really? Because I can."  
  
"So what does it say?" Severus demands in an impatient tone, not grasping what that means immediately. Crossing his arms, he side steps away from Sirius who makes a move to punch him playfully on the arm.  
  
" 'The power is my power, it is as energy. It hasn't decreased or increased, and you cannot make it. The one who controls it is the descendant of the heir. Excalibur's power shall be theirs to wield, and theirs alone. Avalon calls out to you from the five corners of the earth. Where must you find it to access the power of your birthright?' " A pause of mysterious realisation before, "It's a riddle. A protection device so only the true heir of Merlin can open this artefact. But this makes no sense. To find the power you must know where Avalon is, but it's as air. It goes where the wind blows it." And he suddenly realised what this means--he is one of the heirs that they've been seeking. He understands the passage, he knows where Avalon floats when it's a myth, and the book responds to him answering the riddle.   
  
With those words spoken, a bright white light starts to glow from the centre star of the book. It starts out dim and gradually grows brighter, and all they do is watch, mesmerised. The book flips opens with a loud, shrill scream that resembles a battle cry, shaking the bookshelves and rattling the windows. Unknown winds flip the off-white pages of the book until it's open in the centre, where the ancient language appears magically. It's written with light, and turns black as it spells out another phrase:  
  
" 'The world you live in has changed, it is not worthy of the magicks. Emotions are a weakness; the followers of the evil path are right with their thoughts. They now hold the true power because of the mistake of one man. Connected to the physical world he is now, he must forget about his cares and worries, for only then can he balance the scales that he seeks to balance. To Avalon you must fly, I sense that you are ready and time is of the essence. It is in your heart and souls; I can see it in your minds. You speaks no words, but I know you are willing to do anything to save your world. My master awaits your presence. Come with me now and be at peace.' "  
  
He dictates the words to Severus and Sirius as they appear in the book. It ends with the symbol of a pentagram--a five pointed star, where each point represents a certain element--and another shrill, inhuman battle cry that echoes endlessly in the vast library. The winds pick up once more, chanting around them, although there are no windows open, and a silver fog descends from the ceiling and onto the three members of the Last Alliance. The mists begin to envelope them, and swallow them, coughing and hacking, to a distant land where no mortal man has set foot on for millennia.   
  
* * *  
  
The moon never sets here, and the sun never rises. Over the lush green forests and to the mountain's peaks, the water falls in streams and bathes in silver pools at our traveller's feet. Golden stepping stones lead to a castle of crystal, pure and clear. Knights in silver armour guard the secrets buried within, but physical possessions do not rest on this floating island. Stars twinkle in the heavens above, lighting separate paths for the travellers three. One is bathed in green and silver; his path has a ghost of black and white. The other is white and blue, and a mystic aura of silver covers him. The last is pure black, and ascends to the stars above, where his namesake constellation rests. They are Severus Snape, the leader of the alliance, who is also the heir of Merlin, and Sirius Black. They appear from nowhere, emerging from the mists. The grey robes that each wore have now been replaced in teleportation with navy blue ones with gold trimming. Noble colours. The symbol of royalty. For now they walk among legends based on fact.   
  
"I welcome thee to Avalon. Stay thee well, good strangers, for your kind are always deemed welcome here." From the castle limps a lone figure, grey-haired and old. He wears drab brown robes with a leather belt tied around his thin waist. Attached to the belt are many pouches containing dried herbs and other spell components. His eerie eyes hold no colour, and he supports himself upon a staff encrusted with crystal green gems. The mage stands before them, his white eyes meeting with those azure eyes of the Alliance's leader. He bows immediately. "Welcome, descendant of Merlin. With your presence now here, I may rest. My master awaits your audience, for he has the information that you seek."  
  
"And your master has a name, I presume?" Severus asks, stepping between the elderly mage and the young leader. He doesn't know why he was brought here, and he doesn't trust his surroundings. His mission at the moment is to protect one of his former students.  
  
"My master's name is known to those who know of him and seek his guidance. For he is not of a concern to you, heir of Balthasar Slytherin. You serve a greater purpose in life, fallen angel. North is your star; you guide it with your heart and with your soul although your birthright you betrayed, knowing perfectly well the path you walked. There is a mark on your arm that is the symbol of Salazar, and of his blood you are not. Your eyes were clouded with crow's wings and serpent's skin, but falter not again, for this time you will not escape the ultimate evil."  
  
Severus cringes, the dialogue hitting too close to home, but he soon takes the defence. "Who are you to speak those words? You don't understand how life is. You reside up here in a beautiful crystal utopia, and the maths of war never jade you. You who are to speak to us?"  
  
The mage bows again. "Please, forgive me. I am known as Jasper. I studied under Merlin for years, but I betrayed our king. His blood stains my hands, and I was doomed to await your arrival, even if you never arrived. With you here now, I can finally rest." He stares them straight in the eyes, but looks right through them. It's noticeable that heavy bags rest from his eyes to his cheekbones, which are sunken. His skin is wrinkled and dry, and his fingers have been reduced to bone. The others back away from this mage.  
  
"Take me to your master and retire to your bed." Merlin's heir speaks with controlled power in his voice.  
  
"I sleep on a bed of bones covered in blood and guts. I will turn to dust, and I welcome my fate. I've paid for my mistake eons over, I grow weary of this body, and wish to leave it behind before I am taken to hell." Jasper leans heavily on his wooden staff, before coughing suddenly and doubling over from the violence of it all.   
  
"I apologise for your fate."  
  
"Don't. For remorse is something that is not suited to you. It is your flaw, you care too much. Bonded to the physical world you are, you should have given your life before you even knew what life was. The Merlin line was fated to end with you, and the scales would have been balanced forever. Now, the scales have begun to tilt. Evil triumphs over good. There are dark clouds coming over this earth, and it will devour us all," Jasper rasps, placing a hand over his belt. From the beauty of their surroundings, Jasper seems terribly out of place.  
  
"I came here for answers, yet you are merely bringing forth more questions," Merlin's bloodline speaks, as his hands tug uncomfortably upon the robes they were materialised into. A weird fabric they are, he has never felt anything such as them before. Softer than silk, and lighter than cotton, it's a fabric that was worn only in the old days by the royalty of the most prosperous kingdoms.  
  
"I know, but some questions I must bring before you are taken back to the land. Your presence here interrupts the scales and the magicks. Your fate was predetermined; your destiny was set in stone. Come with me now, for my master waits patiently in his last resting place." Jasper turns slowly, his staff clanking against the golden stones with each step.  
  
Slowly, the others follow behind him.  
  
As they enter the castle, which dwells in the centre of Avalon, they notice that the crystal is throughout the whole castle, not just encrusted on the outside. The permanent sunset outside shines rays of red, orange and light blue into the prisms, separating the colours around them. Severus comments sarcastically about walking into a rainbow, and a sharp look from his superior quiets him. They enter a room that has no doors, and volumes of old books line the walls, reaching to the ceiling. Titles such as "The Origin of Elves", "Dark Wizards", and "Egyptian Cats and Their Goddess" catch their eyes. Sirius reaches for the book about elves, but his hand is knocked away by Jasper.  
  
"The elves left your world long ago, you need not concern yourself with them."  
  
"But there are elves on our world," Sirius replies, utterly confused at Jasper's words. His hand lands on the shoulder of the Alliance leader, and halts him in his steps. He, like Severus, does not trust this man now, not when he speaks confusingly. He can smell danger, and it lurks all around them, but he doesn't know where is originates from, or if the evil is on Avalon. Better safe than sorry, Sirius thinks, though.  
  
"Lowly, disgusting servants," Jasper spits, disgusted with the race that was once beautiful and pure. "Their fate, their de-evolution, was caused by the darkness in everyone's hearts and the actions of one evil wizard."  
  
"Volde--"  
  
"Grindelwald," Jasper corrects before Severus finishes the name. "The elves were not always your degrading slaves. They were once a beautiful race that lived in harmony in forests that paralleled their unwavering beauty. Then the world wars began, and Grindelwald began his rise to power before apprentice Albus Dumbledore defeated him in 1945. The elves were a powerful race, born with power that no man could ever dream of. Many people did not know them; Muggles considered them a myth, and eventually the tales died. Only a few wizards and witches scattered across the land knew of their existence. Grindelwald took advantage of them, replaced their pure hearts with darkness, and those who didn't escape your doomed world are now known as house elves."  
  
"Why isn't any of this in the history books? Why didn't we learn about it in the History of Magic?"  
  
"Because the history books are written by the good guys. Anything dark, or anything that they couldn't save, or anything that they are responsible for are, is not written. They try to cover up their mistakes, they try to prove that they are not human--they do not make errors. That is one of the flaws of the human race." Jasper pauses as they pass a closed steel door. "Step carefully now, the Knights of the Round Table are asleep, and the marauders have yet to call home."   
  
Jovial laughter and the clanking of mugs can be heard from the inside of the chamber, but they keep walking.  
  
"Sir Lancelot does not party with them," Jasper informs. "He sleeps six feet under with the king's wife."  
  
Severus and Sirius, who are familiar with the legend that Jasper speaks of, nod their heads. The legend of Merlin, King Arthur, and Sir Lancelot has been passed down as a children's bedtime tale, based loosely on fact. It's hard to believe now that they walk on the sacred soil of Avalon, King Arthur's crypt. On the other hand, the other has not heard of this tale, but somehow he knows of it. It flows in his veins; he's known about it since as long as he can remember, but he does not know how.  
  
Silence walks with them as they turn another corner and enter a vast garden. Fruit trees and evergreens surround them densely, purple and white flowers grow in the gardens, and vines wrap themselves around imaginary fences. Animals, such as white squirrels and black cats, live in the garden in peace, and stone gargoyles guard Avalon from this place. In the centre rests a marble slab, and upon that rock rests another stone, which is an unusual shade of violet. The magical currents flow deep around the stone that the Alliance leader somehow recognises as the Philosopher's Stone. But he heard that it was destroyed.   
  
They pass though the garden quickly, and soon enter a chamber made of moonstone and quartz crystal. No light shines into this room, and it comes to a peak high in the sky. A stone crypt is built in the centre, and upon the smooth rock rests a sword. The sword glistens with an unknown light, and the handle is beautifully carved with expensive metalwork and gems.  
  
"Please wait here, and my master will appear to you shortly." Jasper bows and backs away from the three. When they turn around, all that remains of the accursed mage is a pile of dust beneath dried herbs, which came from his many pouches. Shivers run down their spines as invisible winds blow the remains over the gardens, and the permanently setting sun disappears behind the castle's walls.  
  
"I welcome thee to my dungeon and my home." A distinguished man appears from the gardens, guarded by tall creatures with wings sprouting from their backs on either of his sides. "Greetings. I am King Arthur, and these are my guardians and also friends, Diamond and Peridot."  
  
Diamond is a smooth-skinned gargoyle; white hair cascades down his back. His eyes are large and silver, resembling a cat's. He wears white furs over his light grey skin, and diamond jewellery hangs from his pointy ears and long neck. Peridot, on the other hand, has army-green scales as his skin. He wears camouflage as his clothes, and has light green eyes identical in colour to his name. Both of the gargoyles have sharp features, pointy noses, and large mouths with very sharp teeth. They are ancient mythical creature, stone during the day and alive only at night.  
  
The three bow before them in respect. "It's an honour to meet you."  
  
"The pleasure is all mine," King Arthur replies. He is a tall man with broad shoulders and a defined chest. He wears robes of purple with silver trimming, and dark silver armour rests underneath the robes. His hair is tamed and dark red, and a golden crown with ruby gems rests slanted upon his head. His eyes are a deep sea-green colour, a colour that they have not seen in any other human, besides the one who drove the sword into his heart. Those eyes belonged to his son, the lover of Jasper's daughter.   
  
"Your majesty, we've come from afar to seek your advice."  
  
"Merlin's descendant, I've been waiting for your arrival for many years, although you should not be. You seek power and knowledge, but only one I can give, for they are the same. With knowledge comes power, and with power comes knowledge. You have the power already, but are too afraid to use it. You aim to gather the heirs and channel their energy, but you know not the consequences. You have half of your task complete, the heir of Hufflepuff and the heir of Slytherin. And you, you my young friend, are the heir to the most powerful wizard to have ever walked on your plane of existence.   
  
"Do you know of your past? I can't imagine that you do. But wonder not now, for eventually it will open to you. You know what it is you must do, but you come for reassurance. You have the giants on your side, you have a few Death Eaters as your eyes, and you have Merlin's power flowing through your veins. My gargoyles are at your hand, but know that they can only leave Avalon one night every hundred years. Choose wisely, for if you make a mistake, there is no turning back."  
  
The leader of the Last Alliance nods. "I understand, and I thank you. We don't know when we will make our first move, but it's apparent that we must liberate the camp where Gilderoy Lockhart is imprisoned. And that's when we will need help. We don't have enough power to take on thousands of Death Eaters."  
  
"Then that is the night that the gargoyles will assist you. You will have the Death Eaters running in fear, but Malfoy will retaliate as best as he can. Your war will be a hard one to fight, and it may take years to reach your goal, but play your cards right and victory will be yours. You may choose one of these two gargoyles as your Hermes into Avalon, for I will bend the rules, and he will reside on Earth until you send word."  
  
"Diamond will serve as our messenger."  
  
Diamond steps forward proudly and stands next to the heir of Merlin.   
  
"And he will be unable to help in battle. His time on the earth starts now." King Arthur walks over to the crypt, and gently picks up the sword. "This is my gift to you. Use it well, and once you pass onto the next world, it will return to me. Excalibur's power is now yours to wield. I wish you all luck on your journey."  
  
Merlin's heir takes the true king's sword. "I--I thank you." Excalibur's power sends waves through his body, jolting him into a sense of vivacity he has not felt for as long as he can remember. "I have faith now, with the help of your many gargoyles, that we will be successful in liberating a camp. You have helped us more than I can even describe, your highness. I will forever be in your debt."  
  
"You can thank me by rebalancing the scales on earth."   
  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter Seventeen : Chess

Chapter Seventeen : Chess Strategies  
  
  
  
The commanding wizard of the Last Alliance drops the Book of Shadows onto the oak table, and it lands loudly, startling the four wizards who sit with their hands folded neatly over one another. Most remain calm on the outside as well as in; only Fleur forces herself not to fidget. The commanding wizard looks intently at each of his elders. "We have information, new spells of attack and defence, and a new hope. Now, all we need is a plan." His eyes linger on an empty chair; a puzzled look drifts onto his weary facial features. "Where's Sirius? Snape, didn't you inform him of this meeting?"  
  
Severus shrugs carelessly. "I may have."  
  
"May have?" He shakes his head in disapproval, a black fringe falling before his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to start without him, then. Time is never a luxury." He takes a seat at the table, in a tall chair with a crimson velvet cushion, much like the other chairs, only varying in colour. "Snape, you'll take the minutes and fill him in on them."  
  
"I most certainly will not," Severus declares defiantly, leaning back in his black chair with his arms folded rigidly over his chest. "It's not my fault that he thought something else was more important." Beside him, Karkaroff mumbles an agreement.  
  
"Snape, you and Sirius are brothers in arms--"  
  
"That doesn't mean that I have to converse with him. I'll fight by his side, save his life, let him save mine, but I will never talk to him," Snape cuts off, his smooth voice confident in his words. "I don't recall signing up to baby-sit Sirius when we came together."  
  
A frustrated sigh escapes the heir of Merlin's lips, and he rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "We don't have time for immature rivalries, Snape. You and Sirius are going to learn how to get along, even if it kills me. An army divided is not an army."   
  
Silence from the others tells him that they are in agreement.  
  
With the unpleasant banter out of the way, the leading wizard of the Last Alliance attends to the business they are assembled for on this foggy, late winter morning. "Now, an owl from his father"--a quick motion towards a brown-haired wizard--"tells us that Gilderoy Lockhart is imprisoned in Camp Phi. We'll have the element of surprise, and not to mention close to a hundred gargoyles," he glances at Diamond, one of King Arthur's gargoyles, who stands near the doorway in silence, "when we attack on the sixteenth eve of February. That's in only two weeks. We won't call upon the help of the giants at this time; we don't want the Death Eaters to know the extent of our forces. We still want the element of surprise to be on our side even after we attack."   
  
"A sparse army of a hundred against half a thousand Death Eaters?" Karkaroff raises an eyebrow, regarding his fellows apprehensively. "We deserve to be killed if we go into battle as we are. Weren't the giants our arsenal of power?"  
  
"Are you forgetting that we have this?" replies the alliance leader as he taps three times on the Book of Shadows with his index finger. "Besides the writings on the magickal attributes of herbs and gem stones, there are also a few spells which will surely help us. Standard teleportation, fireballs, lightning bolts, sleeping, and other defence spells suitable in times of combat. Study them and perfect them, because we only have one shot at this, and failure means death. Malfoy will execute us in the worst possible way. And I'm getting very sick of dying."   
  
* * *  
  
Burke is the sort of wizard you'd expect to surround himself with magical effects of the dark arts. His robes are black to symbolise the dark wizard that he once was, and the one he once served. He only wears them now because he hasn't the money for another pair of a different colour. His hair is washed-out grey, and flows ten feet behind him, the tips resting in the gutter of the low streets of Marseilles. His frame is skeletal, and skin seems to melt off his bones. People passing this wizard stop and stare in astonishment or disgust, for he has no eyes; they were torn out nearly seventy years ago for betraying his master. Once gifted with external sight and the power of foresight, the world he sees now is only glimpses of death and decay through eyes that don't exist.  
  
Burke is a street merchant in the dirty streets of Hecate Alley. His kiosk--made of rotting wood--houses many titles the average wizard has never seen, and never will see anywhere else. Strings of garlic are strung around the top of the stand in hopes of repelling evil, and a sign in French reads "Stories Never Told."  
  
Sirius Black walks past the vendor and is halfway down the street before he stops to read the sign painted in red block letters. The words, although in French, grab his attention, and he quickly backtracks with an avid interest.  
  
"Uh . . . bonjour?"  
  
"Mmmphf . . ."  
  
Sirius furrows his eyebrows and subconsciously takes a step back. His left boot splashes in the sullied water of the gutter, seeping up the hems of his grey robes. He reminds himself to wash them when he returns to Fleur's.  
  
"Mamphf teef!" Burke points to a jar of thick liquid holding pearly white teeth.  
  
Sirius passes the wizard his teeth, slightly embarrassed as wizards and witches stop to gape at him on the street. Little children point and snicker with their hands over their mouths, and their mothers quickly bustle them forward, suspiciously not making eye contact.  
  
Burke shoves his teeth into his mouth and rotates his jaw to properly fit them. "I foresaw your arrival," he speaks, his voice a husky whisper. He hasn't used his voice in a while, and it's quite obvious. Not many choose to do business with this peddler, for reasons of his unsightly appearance.   
  
Sirius looks around apprehensively, considering that coming here may have been a mistake. Early February sleet drifts past them sparingly with the passing winds, and he pulls his thick wool cloak closer. "Stories never told, right?" he reads from the sign, not noticing that this wizard speaks perfect English.  
  
"Aha!" Burke raises his finger in triumph. "You seek the elves. I foresaw your arrival," he repeats, as though he's unaware that he's already said that. Standing on his tiptoes and ignoring the sudden crack in his lower back, Burke removes a jar with dried blue rose petals, setting it aside. Drawing a fancy black book from a row of volumes, he passes it to Sirius, and Sirius feels a rush of heat escape his body as his hand brushes past Burke's.   
  
Shivering, Sirius nervously takes the book but doesn't look at it. He's not quite sure what's happening, and he doesn't know what he should be doing. Fluttering moths in his gut tell him to flee, while a curious feeling in his heart tells him otherwise. But information on the elves is what he seeks, and who knew it would have been the information that found him?  
  
"That book will help you, yes it will. Has the answers that you seek, yes it does. I foresaw your arrival, I know that you seek information on the elves," Burke repeats unnecessarily as he turns towards Sirius, the sun behind him. Sirius notices a deep battle scar across his left cheek, and various other scars on the left side of his face. His right side, on the other hand, is void of any flaws, it's perfectly smooth. "What is your name, young man?" Burke asks when Sirius remains silent.  
  
"Sirius Black."  
  
Burke nods, and he searches his kiosk for another magical effect that Sirius could have. Rustling through parchments with ancient spells and rituals, he places them inside of a drawer and pulls out a plain navy book. He places it down, moving with a speed unusual for a man who physically cannot see. "I have foreseen your arrival, young Sirius Black. Humans who knew of the elves did not write about them, for their downfall is something we want to forget, but many others don't know about them. The princess of an elven clan wrote that book you hold before her death. Now, what was your name again?"  
  
Sirius fights the growing urge to leave and dryly restates his name.  
  
"Ah, yes, Sirius Black. Black, Black, Black," Burke repeats the name several times until it's an incoherent mumble, then clumsily passes the navy book he withdrew to Sirius. "This book is empty, you do not want it."  
  
"Then why did you . . ."  
  
"Speak not now, wizard who hasn't told me his name yet!"  
  
Sirius inhales deeply, counting to ten mentally. He lets Burke take back the empty book, not asking any questions. If he does, who knows how long or repetitive Burke's answer will be. Burke places the book between two jars, one of batwings and the other with snake scales. "Take that black book, young Sirius Black. Ten galleons, please."  
  
Sirius dips his hand into his pocket, and draws out ten golden coins. He drops them into Burke's outstretched hands. Burke takes one of the coins, and bites it. Satisfied, he drops them inside of a leather pouch tied to a post of his stand.   
  
"My services are always open, please return if you seek more information."  
  
Sirius now inspects the book and finds that he cannot open it.   
  
"I foresaw your arrival. I know what it is you seek. You seek a key now, young Sirius of the Blacks. A key must be used to open that book, that book will only open with a key," Burke informs as he reaches for a small soapbox, around one inch in diameter. Holding it up to his ear, which is pierced, he shakes it and passes it to Sirius. "That will be ten galleons, please." But no noise came when he shook it.  
  
"Ten galleons?" Sirius curiously opens the box and finds nothing.  
  
"Ten galleons for the box. Ten galleons for the book. Ten galleons for the key. Separately." He speaks with a bounce in his voice, and smiles ear to ear, his pearly whites lighting up the kiosk from the cascading clouds overhead.  
  
"I don't want a box, I want the key," states Sirius.  
  
"You must buy the box before you can buy the key."  
  
Sirius sighs, but he doesn't fight it. The faster they complete their business, the sooner he can hightail it out of here. Reaching back into his pocket, he withdraws a handful of golden coins and places them onto the kiosk with a clink.   
  
Burke extends his hand towards Sirius, palm down and fingers bent, and places his left hand over it. Sirius watches as he removes the top hand and reveals a brass key that amazingly emerged from his flesh, or so it would seem.   
  
Sirius takes it, careful not to touch the man's skin again. He places all three treasures in the safety of the folds of his robes, and thanks Burke.   
  
"I shall foresee another arrival, farewell, uh . . ." Sirius's name flees from his mind.  
  
Sirius quickly Apparates away.  
  
* * *  
  
The cool February air seeps in through the cracks of the stone chamber, collecting in invisible spirals along the floor and around the feet of two Death Eaters, one a former Slytherin and the other Gryffindor. Both are clad entirely in the standard black Death Eater robes, the only difference being that one is hemmed in crimson and the other, a golden colour. The companions are seated on opposite sides of a small table, and in the centre of the table is a chessboard, white and red marble pieces and black stone pieces eager to start the battle.   
  
White moves first.   
  
"Queen Pawn up two," Percy Weasley orders jadedly. He never wanted to commence this game, but he will admit that it's a welcome change from the bore that the winter has been for him. Percy leans back in his chair, his red-rimmed robes shuffling against the stone floor, an unwelcome noise in the silent chamber.  
  
Terence Higgs smirks smugly. "Queen Pawn up one." Terence has always fancied chess, especially playing against people who can match his intelligence. There weren't many of those in his house, so Percy has become his chess mate. Bloody hell, even checkers was beyond Marcus's comprehension.   
  
"Bishop to D5." Percy sighs wistfully, his spirit weighed down from loneliness and depression. Ever since Penelope took leave from the castle to stay at Camp Delta, he hasn't seen her. She doesn't return his owls, he sends messages with Hermes everyday, and everyday there's no reply. He'd consider going down there, but he and Penelope do have an arrangement. A deal is a deal.   
  
"You're worrying about her again, arn'tcha?" asks Terence as he moves his Pawn in front of his King side Bishop up one. He's known Percy for fourteen years, and although he's only been friends with him for half of those, he's learnt to read him like an open book. Empathetic is what Terence calls himself, other Slytherins called him half-arsed.   
  
"Every day," replies Percy, taking no time to consider his next move. "Queen to E2."  
  
Terence first contemplates his chess move (Pawn to B5) then addresses the concerns that plague Percy, "Why don't you ask her to come back? She's been there for almost five months."  
  
Percy shakes his head and moves his Queen to A7, taking a pawn of Terence's. "She'd never forgive me. Sometimes in a relationship you must make sacrifices." He shrugs and exhales, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his robes. He feels empty, as though a part of him fled from his essence, and tired beyond belief.  
  
"But what has she sacrificed?" And, "Rook to A7. Hah! I got your Queen."  
  
Percy doesn't answer. Whether it's because he doesn't want to, or because Penelope hasn't made any sacrifices, it's not clear to Terence. All he does is move his white knight to C3.  
  
"She has your love, she has her freedom, she has money and status." Terence counts each privilege on his left hand as he points them out. "But, she had all of those before the hostilities as well. Look at everything you've sacrificed just to keep her. Is it all really worth it?" His tone is quiet and understanding; he doesn't want to offend Percy with his words, although he hopes the love-struck wizard will see his point.  
  
"Of course it's all worth it," Percy snaps defensively. "You've never been in love, so I wouldn't expect you to understand what it is I feel for her." Just as people write what they know, people don't have a foot to stand on if they don't understand the context of the advice they offer. Terence has not known love; Percy sees no reason to listen to him.  
  
But although someone hasn't experienced something, it doesn't mean that their words are void. Terence sees the conflict with impartial eyes. "I may not have the love of a beautiful lady, but that doesn't mean that I don't understand love," he replies kindly.  
  
Percy pauses, then nods miserably, knowing he's wrong in this matter.  
  
Terence moves his black Queen side Bishop to B4, finding it hard to concentrate on two things at once. Chess is a game of war; if humans were really as smart as they say they are, battlefields would be checkered. "You're a fool, pal. You nearly drove Penelope into the arms of that Davies fellow. When she starts to fancy that bloke, you have no one to blame 'cept yourself."  
  
"I don't need you to tell me what it is I already know," Percy snaps.  
  
Outside, the winds howl and whip against the stone walls, and Percy's Knight moves to B5. He removes another Pawn.   
  
"I just don't know what I'd do if I lost her."  
  
Terence looks up, a miserable, sympathetic look upon his face. "I've lost people, Perce. And, believe it or not, it really isn't the hardest thing to get over. Six years ago a Death Eater killed my aunt, but as time went on, I got over it. And so did her son, who is now an orphan because of that Death Eater." He quickly moves his Bishop to D2.   
  
Percy shifts uneasily, awkwardly listening to Terence's words.  
  
And Terence continues with a calm voice, "I haven't seen my mother since her twin's funeral, and I rarely get along with my egotistical bastard of a cousin, although I see him almost everyday. Love is useless and overrated; look where it gets people. People should never love anyone because they'll just be taken from them."  
  
"You sound very much like a Slytherin."  
  
"I am a Slytherin."  
  
Percy glares and harshly commands a Knight to D2; the marble piece nearly topples over in his haste to reach the square. "I hardly see how this is relevant, Terence. Family love is different than the love you feel for a woman," Percy informs him firmly. "Just shut up, Higgs." Terence's last name comes awkwardly to Percy's lips.  
  
"It's not you I obey, Weasley."  
  
Percy glares daggers at Terence. "You don't have that troll Flint or that git Pucey to watch your back, so I'd watch your mouth if I were you," Percy threatens awkwardly, standing and knocking his chair over. Terence jumps at the disquieting noise. "I don't have time for you, and I certainly don't have time for this." Percy grabs the white king and whips it at Terence.   
  
Terence ducks, and the king lands on the floor, the white marble shattering into a thousand splinters. As Percy leaves, slamming the door on his way out, Terence stares down at the pieces of the grey and white marble king, musing to himself with a melancholy smile.   
  



	18. Chapter Eighteen : The Book of Elves

Author's Notes: Check it out, another author's notes within four chapters of each other. There's a few things that are supposed to be italic in this chapter, but I cannot figure out how to do that here (if anyone knows, please tell me). Basically, anything from the book is supposed to be in italics. Any resemblance that the elves have to any other fiction's elves is strictly coincidental as I have yet to read much stuff with elves. The race and individuals in the following are owned by Moirae. Thanks to those who have read and reviewed. If you are enjoying this, please let me know with a review. If you aren't, please let me know how it could be improved. Ooh, there's also quite a bit of information in the following chapter, so if something confuses you after you've read it, you can always ask me to clarify. Thank you :)   
  
  
Chapter Eighteen : The Book of Elves  
  
  
  
Sirius enters his chambers with the findings from Burke hidden deeply inside his robes, and carefully locks the door, placing the key on his dresser. In a swift motion, he kneels before the flames in the large brick fireplace, letting the warmth and the light wash over him.   
  
He studies the book, which is rumoured to be made from human skin, although Sirius can't imagine that being the truth. It smells faintly of old spices and feels rough to the touch, and very dry. It's black and is decorated with golden metal, binding the pages so it cannot be opened by those whose eyes were never meant to see its contents. Taking the key Burke supplied him with, Sirius unlocks the book with a click.  
  
The writing is in a language that is elegantly flowing; Sirius recognises it somehow, and he's even more amazed when he can read it. With a lump in his throat and a fire in his spirit, he flips over to the first section, entitled "Origins," and begins reading in a whisper:  
  
  
Elves graced the land for centuries before humans were even a thought in their creator's mind. These creatures were exceptionally attractive and slender, with defined features, almond-shaped violet eyes, and pointed ears. They lived in peace and harmony on an island that has been long since sunken to the bottom of the ocean.  
  
Humans pass on tales of a wonderful culture that met its demise by angry waves and vengeful gods, believing that it was only a myth, a children's bedtime tale. The land was known as Atlantis, elven tongue for beauty. When Atlantis was destroyed, the elves were forced from their home and travelled to a nameless land where the king of elves ruled that their brotherhood would take to four different continents so that, should a catastrophe as this happened again, their race would not vanish. The one clan divided into quarters, and with a king nominated for each, they departed towards the four directions. They adapted to living in the forests in Scotland, the northern glaciers of Canada, the tundra in Russia, or the deserts of Egypt. These four clans of elves were forever divided by their habitats, and soon by their principles.   
  
The clan that took its home high in the trees was known as the Kalian. They lived as one with the plants and animals, respecting each life and spirit. The males and females both hunted with arrows, and they soon thrived with white magicks. Over the centuries, tribal tattoos were adopted and painted on the upper arms, and the male elves had a series of nine golden hoops in their right ears. Their clothing--blouses, skirts, trousers and shirts--were made by the elfmaidens from a weightless green or brown material.  
  
Those who lived with the snow and frozen waters were called the Atika. The Atika ice fished for food and kept warm using thick furs from animals the men hunted. Elfmaidens sewed caribou hides into dresses, shirts and trousers, and crafted artic wolf and polar bear furs into cloaks. The teeth of the beasts, along with beads, were used as necklaces for decoration or to show the trophy of the hunt. The elfmaidens stayed at home, taking care of any offspring and the sled dogs acquired in trades. The Atika embraced the traditions of their neighbours, the Inuit, but fought against the tribes for land. Their skin tones darkened, and their hair was either black as the midnight sky, or brown as the hides made into their clothing.   
  
The Atika were the only ones of the elves with the power to polymorph. The ability to turn into a white wolf with violet eyes was an hereditary gene. It's said that there were a few of the Atika who transformed into wolves, and never changed back--they roamed the artic of Canada. As for their brothers who remained in their elven form, the harsh environment was something that they couldn't adapt to and conquer, and eventually they met their defeat by the Inuit, who never knew that they weren't human. The wolf clan remains, to this day, a part of the wilderness of Northern Canada.   
  
The elves that took to the tundra became to be known as the Moora. They were the ones who depended fully on their magicks, and compared to the Kalian they were a small tribe, consisting of less than two hundred elves with defined, sharp features. The elfmaids wore expensive jewellery--rings, necklaces, earrings and anklets--that they stole from the nobles of Russia, while the men bore no accessories. They never settled in one place; rather, they travelled the lands, terrorising those who crossed their paths, and burning all evidence. The Moora had few or no morals, seeking amusement through the pain of the humans, and eventually their cousins wanted nothing to do with them and made no effort to stop their destructive attitudes.  
  
The last tribe was the Sesmar, and animal magick was their specialty. They grew to worship animals and easily communicated with them. They mixed white magick, black magick, and green magick, and soon tales of the Sesmar were alive in the Egyptian culture. Most believed them to be spirits that haunted the Pyramids of dead pharaohs, or even the gods themselves, and to be responsible for the curses of the tombs. The Sesmar created clothes from plant fibres, sometimes cotton. Like their cousins in the northwest, their skin tones darkened to compliment the hot summers and the mild winters. They wore tattoos, as the Kalian did, but these weren't permanent. Instead, Egyptian symbols were painted on with golden and black paint, the colours of royalty.   
  
  
Sirius pauses, letting the information sink in. So deep are his thoughts, the one common trait that all elves share passes over him unnoticed. He shares the same violet eye colour as all elves, one would think that he'd notice this. But he doesn't, and he licks his index finger to turn the parched page, tilting the book and his body towards the live fire. He runs his hand through his hair and begins to read the passage entitled "End of Days."  
  
  
The downfall of the elven race began in the tenth century, after living without the fear of death for several elven lifetimes. First, the Atika came to extinction when they couldn't adapt to the neighbouring tribes and overthrow the many Inuit warriors. Too proud to travel to a new land, they never witnessed their cousins become tainted with black magick, and they all died by the turn of the thirteenth century.   
  
The Moora once knew the fine line between right and wrong, but in the early sixteen hundreds, they began to study books of dark magick purchased on the black market. They terrorised the countryside of Russia, plundering villages and burning humans at the stake. Most who met them were killed; those who weren't wished that they were.   
  
Nearly two hundred and fifty years after their discovery of the evil magicks, a young elven couple happened upon a small child, who was left there by his parents for Death. They took in the boy, Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin, as he called himself, and raised him in the teachings of the dark arts. He was a natural, and at the age of forty, he had a stern control over the Czarina of Russia, Alexandra, and was offering her government advice. He regarded himself as a holy man, and the Czarina believed that he was sent from god to heal her son, Alexei. The actions of this dark elf-raised human would start a reaction that caused the fall of the Russian monarchy. The Moora watched idly as World War I erupted across Europe, and as Russia underwent a revolution. They were disappointed when the "good guys" won the war.   
  
However, that disappointment was short-lived. The Great War ended on November 11, 1918; and on January 13, 1919, another young man sparked their destructive interests. He called himself Grindelwald, and the ruling king and queen of the Moora offered him unspeakable power in exchange for his vow to cause another disparaging war.  
  
Grindelwald agreed but had his own agenda in mind.  
  
He began to gather followers and more power, and at first, his attacks in Britain were small--a powerful wizard here, a Muggle family there. After long years of climbing the ladder of power and his ambitions growing stronger, Grindelwald achieved his aim in September or 1936. The name Grindelwald now struck fear in British wizards, and his followers were proud, for when Grindelwald brought on a new world, they would be the ones rewarded. Only three years after his rise, the alliances were fighting a war on two fronts, although only the Muggle one was known to all.   
  
Grindelwald, who was once an esteemed wizard in the Wizarding World and a strong pole of influence in the Ministry of Magic, had one daughter. She was one of the most beautiful maidens that any man had ever set his eyes on, and she had several wizards courting her. Grindelwald loved his daughter dearly, and he promised her that she would rule at his side. She was a true Gryffindor at heart, though, and very wise; she never wanted anything to do with her father's evil deeds. The nineteen-year-old fled Britain in 1939 with her father's apprentice, Albus Dumbledore. It's highly speculated about where they went, for they left Britain and travelled south towards the barren lands of Egypt.   
  
While this was happening, the Kalian were suffering with their own problems. A young, renegade elf was experimenting with the dark magicks, following in the destructive footsteps of the Moora. His name was Steel, the ruling king's nephew. After a horrible accident that cost a few dozen elves their lives, Steel was exiled. He sought out the Moora and Grindelwald for revenge on his uncle.  
  
It was told that Steel arrived in Britain in 1940 with magicks that Grindelwald had a deep interest in. The Moora, however, did not favour this Kalian who had more power and esteem than they did. They formed several plots to execute Steel, but Grindelwald was on his side. The remaining of the Moora were met with most unfortunate deaths as Steel burned them alive with his extensive magicks.   
  
Steel became Grindelwald's right-hand man, but knew not of the goal that he had in mind--the elven race at his feet. In a Book of Shadows that was recovered in 1945 by young Ministry Intern Tom Marvolo Riddle, Grindelwald wrote that with every life he took, he became more powerful. And with more power, he managed to perfect a spell that would bring the elven race to their knees. Grindelwald saw, for the first time in the elves, deceit, fear, betrayal, and evil. He happily used that to his advantage, and the wheels of his plan began to turn noisily.  
  
In 1942, Grindelwald mysteriously disappeared, and the Wizarding World thought that their war was over. Cheers rose around the state of Britain, and Ministry Intern Riddle resigned with the thought of studying from a sage in the Middle-East. However, the war was three years from over, and their uplifting words were premature. When Grindelwald returned to Britain in 1943, he brought with him slaves he called house-elves, and a new sort of power he stole from the fallen race. The Wizarding World was beginning to fall to their knees, and they desperately needed a hero.   
  
The house-elves were much different than the race they once were. Their life spans were very short; most died at the age of forty, although they were supposed to live till fifty-five. They still had their magic, although it could not compare to what they once possessed. Most Wizarding households that followed Grindelwald bought these slaves, and households that were against him soon found themselves accepting of these creatures that were mysteriously introduced into the world.   
  
In 1944, more than six thousand people fell to Grindelwald's power, and in October, his daughter and former student, who was also his daughter's new love, returned. Having witnessed the downfall of the Sesmar by Grindelwald from behind a small pyramid, Albus Dumbledore was learning the secrets of the elf's power, secrets that his mentor would have never told him. He now believed that he could be the hero the Wizarding World sought.   
  
In 1945, two victories were won by Grindelwald's opposers. Grindelwald was defeated by magicks unknown, and Germany surrendered to the allied forces after their leader, Hitler, committed suicide inside of a bunker.  
  
Many other wizards and witches never questioned where the breed of house-elves came from. If they did, they kept it all behind closed doors and never in the history books. The elves are a reminder that good will always be corrupted. White will always mix into black, and no matter how much white is added back into the mixture, it will always remain grey.   
  
  
Sirius closes the book but keeps his middle finger between the pages to mark his spot. For a race that was supposed to be a myth, drifting through the lives of humans unseen, the Moora sure had a lot of influence in the first half of the twentieth century.   
  
Inhaling deeply, he reopens the book and pauses, considering skipping over the photos. But he decides not to, as one catches his eye. It appears to be of himself, a younger version of him, granted, but the resemblance is uncanny. The writing under the sketch tells that this dark elf--the black hair, violet eyes, mischievous smile, and boyish charm--is none other than the infamous Steel. All that's missing is the goatee since elves cannot grow facial hair.   
  
Uncomfortable shivers run down Sirius's spine as he hurriedly flips past the pictures and into a small section of writing, the smallest in all of the book. This one is titled "King Kircan of the Kalian."  
  
  
The Kalian kingdom was unlike any other elven kingdom on the Earth. The queen ruled for five hundred years without a king and bore two children--Kircan and Valora--before her death. Prince Kircan was the youngest, and quite the adventurer. Princess Valora was one hundred years older than Kircan and would have been queen of her people if not for her disappearance in the late twelfth century. The royal family never suspected foul play, for Valora left on her own terms after the birth of her son, with a note remaining in her bedchambers about a great evil that was spreading over the Earth. She was being called to record it all.   
  
King Kircan, young archer and revered white magick user, began his reign around 1720 AD at the age of 213, after his mother died of old age. He ruled without a queen for approximately 160 years, until he met a beautiful human maiden, Mabel, in 1879. Kircan fell in love with Mabel at first sight, and Mabel became the first human to set foot inside of the Kalian kingdom.  
  
The Kalian finally had a queen, but they never trusted her. Although they respected their king's decision, they never took a liking to Mabel, and thought their king foolish to fall in love with her. Mabel ruled by his side till she died fifty years later; no known magick could extend her life, and Kircan knew again the pain of loss.   
  
In Mabel's life she bore one child, a male whom they called Apollo. Apollo was the first half-breed. His eyes were violet, but his ears were not pointed, which was very unusual, as elven genes were dominant over those of a human. His lifespan was considerably shorter than the elves, and he aged quickly, as humans do.  
  
Apollo was nineteen human years old when he left the forests of Kalian in search of adventure and fortune. He travelled to Britain, where World War I was about to begin. Apollo stayed there for nearly two decades, as he fell in love with a human witch. But shortly after his first son was born, Grindelwald and Steel murdered Apollo in cold blood.  
  
When Grindelwald arrived in the vast forests of the Kalian in 1942, the elves protected themselves with magicks and arrows, but it was no stand against the dark magicks of Grindelwald. The elven clan was forever transformed with dark magicks, and only one elfmaiden escaped--Valora, who was never in the Scotland forests again. Grindelwald and her son, Steel, never knew of her existence. Kircan had told Steel as a child that his mother died in childbirth.   
  
  
An account on the wizard bloodline with elven genes will not be recorded, but it is foreseen that Apollo's son will have a daughter, who will marry a well-known wizard by the surname of Black.  
  
And it's signed, Valora, princess of the Kalian, and watcher of the races.  
  
  
Sirius closes the book slowly without bothering to continue reading.  
  



	19. Chapter Nineteen : Telling Stories

Chapter Nineteen : Telling Stories  
  
  
  
"My services are always open, please return if you need more information."  
  
Sirius remembers those words spoken to him by Burke before his departure, and can't help but wonder if the crazy old coot knew all along. Burke's a strange old wizard, his lack of physical vision only adding to his mystical aura. Sirius places the book inside of a footlocker, locks it, and exits his room with a determined twinkle in his eyes. His footsteps sound down the corridor, reminding him of the vastness that's the Delacour Manor. Rounding a corner and travelling down a spiral staircase, Sirius enters the living room, where Fleur and her younger sister, Gabrielle, are sprawled across traditional daybeds.  
  
"There's, uh, something I forgot while I was out yesterday," Sirius says quickly, not waiting or expecting Fleur to respond, let alone sit up and take notice of him. But, Fleur cranes her neck towards Sirius.   
  
"Did Severus speak with you?" she asks sweetly, expecting the answer to be a no.  
  
Sirius grabs his black fur cloak as he replies, "Yes, early this morning. Camp Phi, February 16. I assure you I'll be ready, as I expect the of rest of you." Without another word, Sirius heads hastily out the door.   
  
Once securely away from the mansion, he Apparates into the underbelly of Hecate Alley, a wizarding centre that's bustling with life. Glancing around with his telltale elven eyes, he quickly finds the peddler of Stories Never Told. Burke is parking his wares on the corner of the wand shop, opening for the afternoon business.  
  
"I welcome you back, I knew you'd return." Burke glances up at the black-haired wizard, and Sirius shudders under Burke's gaze, wondering what it is he sees through the skins where his eyes should be. "Answers to your many questions you will find here. Come closer, come closer. I have gifts for you, the last of the elves in this decade. Scrolls, spells, runes and artefacts. I promise you will find them of use. Now, what was your name again?"  
  
Sirius goes to open his mouth, but is interrupted by Burke.  
  
"Ah, yes. Sirius Black. What can I help you with, Sirius Black?" Burke reaches into a drawer and pulls out several scrolls and a large box. The box is made from mahogany, carved with vines and star-shaped flowers. He slides the lid open, and Sirius cannot help but to peer in, but he sees only darkness.   
  
"I was hoping you could answer a question." Sirius straightens.  
  
"Anything for a relative of the infamous Steel. Now, what is it that plagues you?"  
  
"If I am truly a descendant of the Kalian royal family, then why were these tales not passed down in my family? Why did I have to read about it in some book? Shouldn't this be a sign of power? Of esteem?" Sirius picks up one of the ivory scrolls and unrolls it, only to stare at a blank page.  
  
"You needn't have known till now. Why burden you with the knowledge that you are different than everyone else, and forever will be? That your elven ancestors caused many wars in the early twentieth century, and because of them wizards such as Grindelwald caused the deaths of many innocent people." Burke's voice is nearing a whisper, Sirius has to lean forward just to hear him.  
  
Sirius then regains his posture. "But they were the Moora. It was their fault that Rasputin caused a revolution and that Grindelwald gained power. The Kalian had nothing to do with the drow." He begins to walk around the kiosk, but upon feeling Burke's internal vision burn into him, he turns his attention back towards the blind wizard.  
  
"If the Kalian were more like the Moora, they could have overpowered them, but the Kalian didn't meddle in the affairs of the other clans. They let the Atika die; they let the Moora plunder the countryside of Russia, burning crops and villages. Raping and killing the women, but not before disembowelling their babies before their eyes. They beheaded men and tore some apart by their horses. Others were lucky enough to be slain with swords and daggers, and left for dead.   
  
"If the Kalian knew the sort of power they wielded, if they took the chance to use their magicks in battle, they could have killed the Moora with two words. Do you know what those words were? Avada Kedavra. You know of it, I'm sure you do. Every witch or wizard in the world knows of the deadliest of the Unforgivables. It first came into existence into the wizarding world because the Moora stole the knowledge from the Kalian, giving it to Rasputin, and then to Grindelwald. And from there, it spread to Grindelwald's followers and others. So, in essence, the Kalian are responsible for the fate of the elves."  
  
Sirius wrinkles his nose, disgusted once more with the Moora. But this happened so many years ago, his family shouldn't have been ashamed of their pasts; none of those deeds are stained on their souls and on their flesh. They are not responsible for all in their race.   
  
"Those are powerful words," Sirius says once the images of eviscerated babies and men's bloody body parts have taken flight out of his mind. "Who is to say that the Moora wouldn't have slaughtered the Kalian as they did to so many of the humans?"  
  
Burke turns without notice, walking around his kiosk, his hand never lifting from the rotting wood. "Moora? Kalian? Whatever are you talking about, Young Sir?" Burke tilts his head and reaches out. His hand lands on Sirius shoulder, and Sirius leaps back. Burke's touch is cold and seems to draw heat from his body. With the warmth, Burke is brought back to the present and his conversion with Sirius. "Ah, yes. Elves. Moora. Kalian. Sirius Black. Tell me, have you ever known for the villains to win?"  
  
"Yes!" Sirius shrieks, and then, embarrassed, he calms down. "Look at your neighbour, Britain. Malfoy has his Death Eaters torturing those people, while some of them remain untouched. Who is he to say who is to die and who is to live? Who made him the almighty God of the world? People are dying out there, and if we put our minds to it, we can stop it. Just as the Kalian could have stopped the Moora."  
  
Burke smiles warmly, beginning to grow fond of this quarter-elf. "If only every army was filled with more Sirius Blacks than we could ever need. Your spirit is strong; it would have helped in battle. But destinies are written in stone; we are merely actors acting out a predetermined page."  
  
"That's not true. We are not actors."  
  
"If you believe that, then why did your leader pass the order for those to travel to see the old sage, Peru-san? She sees into the future, sees what's in store for human kind," Burke counters, smiling smugly to himself.  
  
"Divination only lets us see glimpses of possible futures. If we know too much about our paths, then they will not come to pass. Not everything is written in stone--we have the power to change our fates," Sirius declares; it is a strong opinion that's carried by many fellow wizards and witches.  
  
"Hmm." Burke nods. Clearly satisfied with Sirius's answer, he doesn't press the issue. "Now then, what was your name again? Wait! Don't tell me, I'll remember! Uhh, Severus? No, that's not right. Steel? No, he's long since vanished. Black . . . I remember a Black . . . Ah, you are Sirius Black! Now, what is it you seek, Young and Nameless Man?"   
  
Ignoring Burke's behaviour, Sirius asks, "What else of the elves do you carry in your wares?"  
  
Burke nods. "I have been saving these especially for you, the last of the Blacks." He takes the scrolls and box he withdrew earlier, knowing Sirius would ask for them. "These scrolls hold information about the elves, as well as a few spells, which they created. You may find a few that you recognise, while others will be new to your vision. This box . . . I must admit that I do not know what lies inside this box. I have looked, but I see darkness. I touch it, but I feel no magic; I only feel the presence of your family line. It belongs to you, and I've waited for you to arrive for as long as I haven't been able to gaze upon the physical world."  
  
Sirius takes a scroll, the same one he handled before, and finds elven writing now on it. He glimpses at the others scrolls, around seven in total, and places them on the counter. He'll study them later, for it's not them he's curious about. Reaching inside of the box, he withdraws an oval amulet, just smaller than his palm.   
  
The amulet is a light hue of purple, and is made from pure, raw amethyst encrusted with white gold. Holding it in his hands, Sirius feels the power surge through his fingers, leaving behind a tingling sensation. It's magickal, that's apparent, and the currents that flow from it are of healing.   
  
"So tell me, please, what is that stone?" Burke asks, eager to know what's been in his possession for quite a few decades. He parts his lips, running his tongue over them.  
  
Sirius knows, he doesn't know how he knows, he just does. "It's a healing amulet. Belonging to . . ." he stalls, the name on his tongue, but he's unsure if he should speak it. Like Voldemort and Grindelwald, it's a name that would strike fear in the hearts of the elves.  
  
"Steel." Burke's unafraid, for he once served this drow.  
  
"Why would a drow possess a healing stone? An artefact of white magick."  
  
"Why wouldn't he?" Burke replies, an amused look playing across his thin white lips. "A dark elf on his rise to power with the infamous Grindelwald, unsure about who he can trust. Assassins were hired, many were killed, and if Steel had not had the amulet, mortal weapons could have touched him. He was immortal with this stone; he was shot, and nothing happened. Stabbed, and nothing. Magic is hopeless against it. It's one of the most powerful artifacts that the elves possessed, and Steel stole it from his uncle before he was exiled."  
  
Sirius nods, understanding. "So why was it left for me? Wouldn't Steel have left it for his people?" He places it gently back into the carved box, drawing it closed.   
  
"You are the spitting image of Steel, all you lack are the pointy ears."  
  
"Physical appearance has nothing to do with what's on the inside," Sirius retorts sternly.  
  
"That's true, and to this day I don't know why he left it to the half-breeds. Maybe it's because you are the last of the elves, although you are only one-fourth of the species. Steel is a relative of yours, although distant. And blood is thicker than any magick," Burke informs. "Blood is thicker than any magick or alliance. Just remember that. Now, anything else I can interest you in? Snake scales? Garlic? Werewolf teeth?"  
  
"No," Sirius says as gathers up the box and scrolls.  
  
"No? That'll be forty galleons, please."  
  
"Do you realise you're charging me for what is rightfully mine?"  
  
"Oh? I am, am I? Well then. We'll see what we can do about that. Here, take this scroll." Burke extracts a small, grey scroll from his robes. "Take this and those treasure. Twenty galleons please."  
  
Sirius pays the wizard, and as before, Burke bites one of the coins before placing them into a pouch. Burke then turns away, unwilling to deal with Sirius now that their business is over. Unrolling the scroll, Sirius reads the words "Blood is thicker than any magick or alliance" from the parchment, written in a loopy hand. He Apparates out of there, eager to study the scrolls and wondering when he can bring this all up with his commanding wizard.  
  
Severus Snape, who has been standing in the shadows of the wand shop since he followed Sirius from the Delacour Mansion, approaches Burke with a long stride. He circles the stand several times with a distrusting sneer across his face. Burke, aware of him, stands.   
  
"Can I help you?" Burke crosses his arms, standing only up to Severus's shoulder.  
  
Severus surveys the wizard and clearly doesn't like what he sees. "What was that about?" He picks up a jar with bat guano, and replaces it quickly, disgusted. "What business did Sirius Black have here, Old Man?"  
  
Burke smiles toothily. "The elves are destined to return."  
  
* * *   
  
The commanding wizard of the Last Alliance decided upon his first arrival to the Delacour Manor that the smallest room in the centre wing would serve as his office. He had bought a sizable oak desk from a small shop in Marseilles; the top is stained black and there are three drawers on each side. A grey filing cabinet sits beside the curtain-drawn window, and from wall to wall stretches a dark blue rug. Above the radiator, a shelf houses many more books and parchments, and a large box holds an expensive cloak. Dusty sunrays filter through the light blue curtains, and the room is layered with a soft light.   
  
"Sirius, I'm not saying that you shouldn't believe that old man, but don't you find any of this a bit odd? Answers don't fall into our hands like this. This wizard used to serve Grindelwald, so what makes you think this isn't a ploy, a ruse for our demise? People rarely change their robes," the alliance leader speaks with apparent concern in his voice. Before him stands Sirius Black, having finally found the courage a week past his journeys to the peddler, Burke, to bring up his findings.  
  
"I know he speaks the truth. I can feel it. Everything he told me and everything I read, it makes sense somehow. And knowing this might be in our best interests, there's magick in these that humans have yet to discover." Sirius places a few of the scroll translations onto the desk, pushing them towards the black haired wizard.  
  
"You shouldn't have gone alone, who knows--"  
  
"He wasn't alone, though," Severus intervenes from the doorway, arms crossed.  
  
"Snape, shouldn't you be preparing for battle?" snaps Sirius.  
  
Severus saunters towards the two wizards, his usually pale face alive with a disparagement and amusement. "I could say the same for you, Black. But, I've been waiting for this moment for the past week, ever since that delusional wizard fed falsities into your weak-willed mind. You would do well to listen to our commanding wizard, he is wise beyond your years, and dare I say it, maybe mine. Who knows what enchantments are on those scrolls? Do you realise what you've brought into this house?"  
  
If Sirius was in his animagus form, he'd be baring his teeth at the moment. With a look of scorn aimed towards his Slytherin equal, the grey-robed Sirius retorts, "I've read those scrolls over and over. If there were any enchantments, I would have detected them. I am not a fool, I tested them before I brought them into the lady's house, and look, Snape, we still live. Your concern is irrelevant and immature."  
  
"But for how long? What else have you been keeping from us?" Severus growls.  
  
"The answer to that is what else have I been keeping from myself? These are--were--my people's last legacy. The magickal currents flow strong in these artifacts, as you in no doubt feel, commander. We'd be fools not to prepare ourselves with these spells as well." Sirius glances sharply towards the heir of Merlin, who nods in agreement. He was busying himself with the scrolls while Sirius and Severus quarrelled, and found them most helpful. Plus, as Sirius said, the magick does flow deep.  
  
Severus's eyes widen in shock. "You can't be serious! Trust that crazy coot!? Who knows what type of mind control he has over Black, and you are fool enough to trust his words! I should have known, you've always favoured him. Or maybe you've been enticed with the enchantment as well!" Much to the surprise of the others, Severus reaches for his wand, and points it towards Sirius. " 'Break the vessel and the power will be shattered.' You remember that lesson, don't you?" he sneers towards his superior, disgusted with the both of them.  
  
"Severus, put away your wand," the leader drawls, fear having not crept upon his thin shoulders yet. To him, this is still a childish rivalry.  
  
"No," Sirius whispers, taking the situation into short consideration. "No. If Severus thinks that I am the enemy, then let him proceed with his course of actions. And he will see that he is wrong."  
  
"That's mutiny! Snape, Black! I order you both to stand down!" he screams, his voice cracking as his face grows ashen. A surge of bile rushes up in his stomach, lingering in his throat, his heart drops into his boots. The commander always had the nightmare that he wouldn't be able to lead an army, he'd fail as he has failed in the past. The lives of those people in Britain, as well as the lives of his army brothers rest in his hands. It's an unsettling feeling.   
  
Sirius glares into Severus's black eyes, a glint of ivory lilac drawing his attention to the depths of Severus's pockets. Sirius withdraws his wand. "I've always known that it'd come down to this, Snape."   
  
And before the ashen Severus has a chance to cast a spell, or the heir of Merlin can scream, the words, "Avada Kedavra!" ring through the small office.  
  
Severus's face loses all expression as a vast green magick smacks him in the chest, knocking him back several feet. Everything moves in slow motion, with a steady rhythm beating behind his temples, and it takes several seconds for him to realise that it's his heart. He sees the mouth of his superior drop, but no sound comes from the astounded young man. With Sirius still standing with a serious expression, Severus hits the ground, and it feels as though his soul's being ripped from his body.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" the commander cries, hysterically thinking the worst. "Sirius Black, what is it you think you just did!? Do you know what you just did!? Bloody hell!" He rushes to the lifeless Severus's side, shaking him by the shoulders. "I should have you drawn and quartered for what you just did!" His heart thumps a thousand beats per minute. Sweat rolls from his hairline, down his brow, and drips to the floor from his nose.  
  
"I know exactly what I did," Sirius responds coldly, crossing his arms. "Trust me, I never hurt Snape."  
  
Much to the leader's surprise, Severus groans, twitching his hand. "I'm going to kill you, Black. Slowly. Painfully. And enjoyably. I'll enjoy every moment of it. Trust me," Severus whispers hoarsely, as he stiffly sits up, unable to feel anything besides his headache from the blast.  
  
Kneeling beside Severus, Sirius reaches inside one of the Slytherin's pockets, and clasps his hands around an ivory lilac jewel, the same one he saw glisten before he meaningfully cast the killing curse. Holding out his hand towards his companions, he asks, "Now do you believe me? This stone has the ability to grant the bearer immortality. Just as Burke said. Just as what's written in the scrolls. Still think I'm a delusional old wizard dreaming dreams of the past? Then Snape is dead right now."  
  
The heir of Merlin takes a deep breath with his hand on his chest, forcing his heartbeat to slow. Glaring at Sirius, he stalks out of the room. He doesn't need to speak; Sirius knows that his superior is not pleased with his actions, as a word of warning would have proved to be helpful.  
  
"Study the elf's spells!" The commanding wizard slams the door shut.   
  
Severus sneers, amused with the events, but his hatred for Sirius burns stronger, a flame that will never extinguish. "Tell me, what if I hadn't stolen the amulet? What if it was something else I had concealed in my pocket to show the commander?" Severus growls lowly, eyes casting daggers at the smug Sirius, who's proud of his discovery, and even prouder that they now believe him.  
  
"That was a chance I was willing to take."   
  
* * *   
  
Lucius Malfoy leans over various volumes, locked deeply away inside of his chambers. Books embellished in black or brown leather, or grey metal surround him as a fortress. Only one is opened across his large desk, the pages old and torn from age. The book holds necromancy spells such as exorcism, raising the dead, controlling the wills of others, and death. Grey eyes study how to raise the dead, as he has been for the past few months. When he does leave his studies, it's only for important business, such as the birth of his second son.  
  
The second heir. The one with the eerie red eyes and pure white hair.  
  
The demon child.  
  
It was Lucius's idea to name him Fyre, he had said that there was a fire in his eyes, and it wasn't merely about the colour. The child was different, that much was obvious, but how different Lucius and Marie wouldn't know till the far future. But, that deals with a different story.   
  
Fyre Angelus Malfoy lies forgotten in his mother's loving embrace, while Lucius studies ancient spells, which no man has ever performed. Necromancy is a string of the dark arts that even Voldemort didn't follow. It has been said that it's impossible to raise the dead; it's never been done before.   
  
Lucius has decided that he will be the first to succeed in such a spell.  
  
With an angry sigh, he slams his book shut and hurls it across the room. Bang against the wall it lands, and it drops onto a pile of other useless volumes. He selects another book, this one from a pile to the right of him, and opens it. Flipping through the pages, he stops at another version of the forbidden spell.  
  
Raising the dead is a lengthy process using many black market items--human blood, sometimes the blood of an innocent creature. Sacrifices such as a newborn child, unicorns or other mythical creatures are sometimes called for. Lucius has been through five spells that called for the blood of a griffon, and three where the mother of the deceased had to be sacrificed.  
  
Griffins have been long since been extinct in this world. The last recorded sighting was nearly an eon ago, and no one knows how they disappeared. It's rumoured that Godric Gryffindor was a Hereditary Animagus; he had the ability to turn into a griffon at will. That ability was passed down through his family line, but has long since been forgotten.   
  
Lucius marks his page, sets his book aside and chooses another one. He prepares to open it, but a knock on his door speaks otherwise. "Enter!" he orders, after clearing his throat. He hasn't spoken to anyone in a few moonrises.  
  
"Sir?" A young man enters, his voice strained and shaky.  
  
"I asked not to be disturbed. What is the meaning of this?" Lucius demands.  
  
"I--I know, m-milord." Sweat drips down the man's brow, and he nearly jumps out of his shoes as Lucius slams a book closed. "B-but, you see, Camp F-Phi is under attack . . . b-by a small force c-calling themselves the Last Alliance, and"--the Death Eater stops to swallow--"g-g-gargoyles."   
  



	20. Chapter Twenty : Dear Dad,

**Chapter Twenty : "Dear Dad,"**

  
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**~ I feel a story coming on ~**   
**~ A chance to raise a few questions ~**

**_Dear Dad,_**   
  


He immediately stalls, chewinghis bottom lip, contemplating how to begin his tale. He has thought about it before, it was all that filled his mind, aching to be written down. He has so much to tell his father; so much that he doesn't even know where to begin. The beginning would seem unjustified, a tale without emotion, filled with logic. That's not the story this storyteller wishes to tell. Without thinking, he dips his quill in a bottle of black ink and presses it to the parchment. He lets his emotions run free for the first time in many years, and soon the words come to quickly to write down.   
  


_We Apparated before dusk, making our attack under the cover of night. Our legion of gargoyles flew above us, their wings rhythmically beating the cool air as we advanced upon the enemy. We were an army yesterday, father. Two ex-Death Eaters, a French maiden, my best mate, and a worried commander. Our defeat meant death, and we knew that going into battle. We knew that when we laced our boots and dressed in our battle robes, a dark black to match our spirits, and chain mail beneath the velvet fabric. We knew the risks, and we still took that leap. It's what was forced upon us; we never asked for any of this.___

_We walked in as Death with black robes, blood staining our hands. Chaos hung above us as we marched towards our destinies. The battle cries of the Death Eaters and the scared cries of the prisoners filled our ears, father, echoing all around us, ringing to the core of our beings. Vibrating against our spines, beating at us with their silver wings and hooked claws. White masks with black hoods, marked with dark blood, haunted us. We were heroes in the making, striving for change, honouring our morals. And off in the corner of the battlements, a hooded figure with a scythe stood overlooking the battle as a king overlooks his kingdom._   
  


Laying his quill down, he then buries his head in his hands. Inhaling deeply, the wizard wipes the forming tears and sleep from his eyes, images still haunting his memory, but he tries to be strong. He couldn't sleep, not even if he wanted to. Vivid dreams of robed figures with scythes surrounded him; skeletons screamed at him, screamed that he failed them. Couldn't save them. 

He's seen a lot in his day, anguish mixed with immaturity; he was always the one with the level head. He was the one his mates looked up to. But eventually, he knew he'd break. All heroes break, all good guys eventually fall.   
  


_We weren't the heroes that night. The true heroes are Peridot, Ruby, Emerald, and all the other gargoyles who were there to fight, revelling in the glory of the kill, savouring the taste of human blood and flesh. Becoming addicted to the battle, to the raw human emotion, and their never-ending wills to survive. The Death Eaters provided numerous enjoyments for the gargoyles, a chance to taste human flesh again.___

_They arrived shortly after, only a few hundred were ordered to protect that camp, and they succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. More people, innocent people for that matter, died that night; we were only able to save about one-eighth of the prisoners. I was told it was small victory for us, a setback for the Death Eaters. But I imagine that, despite all the people they inanely murdered, the Death Eaters are rejoicing in the fact that their defences stood true.___

_Somewhere, in the castle that was once Hogwarts, Lucius Malfoy is dancing with a top hat and cane, singing "we beat them, we beat them! Na na na na na!" to an ebullient harmony.___

_I saw the battle, father, and words cannot express the panic and fright of it all. Through the colourless vision of my yellow eyes, I saw death again, for what it really is. Did you know that blood is dark grey? Torn flesh is light grey? I wasn't a fighter yesterday, I was a protector. I protected the innocent while the gargoyles flew them to safety, and Fleur arranged port key after port key, sending them to the Delacour Manor._   
__   


The killing was nothing to the renewed hope, he realises.   
  


_I overheard things while on my watch. As I have dog's vision, I have dog's hearing. Bits and pieces of conversations drifted into my mind, and I knew that somewhere in that one building, a friend was slaughtering a friend. And do you know why, father?_

_Because one was a Slytherin Death Eater and the other was a Slytherin prisoner._

_It hurts to think about it, but I knew they enjoyed it. Two ex-mates revelled in the heated soul of the battle, basked in the soft rays of violence and adrenaline. Between the pummelling, there was an exchange of words. Sadistic and vicious words; you should have been there. Now that was raw, pure, unhindered hatred. Suitable of the two young men. I'm sure they'd make you proud.___

_Marcus Flint, I heard his name being shouted by the other in a jeer.___

_William Bletchley, I heard his name being shouted in hatred.___

_And do you know what petty quarrel they had, father dear?___

_Sit back and let me tell you. Grab a mug of coffee if your heart wishes it.___

_You see, nearly a decade ago, Bletchley shagged Flint's girl. They were still arguing over this, over this woman. The great force that beat us in almost every battle--these Death Eaters--were fighting over what happened in times they should have forgotten! The gods work in mysterious ways, but this must be some cruel joke! How we could be defeated by such gits as those? It's preposterous. And stupid. The gods have dealt us a pathetic hand.___

_What fate has befallen the earth? Who do we have to blame for this?___

_Our young commander blames himself everyday; it's what he's been doing for as long as I can remember, for as long as I've known him. At his command, we went into battle outnumbered, outmatched, and maybe even outwitted.___

_Once upon a time, a little boy was born into a loving family, and over the years he grew. But as he grew, the gods decided to play god and not to let that boy have a full life. That little boy is our leader, and he still lives.___

_That's why this is all happening. Because the Merlin line was supposed to end with him, and it didn't. He lived when he was supposed to die. There is so much that we don't understand, and so much that King Arthur's spirit refuses to tell us. Are we destined never to know, to walk through life as empty shells, and put the blame on someone as our leader, our friend? Although, father, in the midst of what we don't know, what we do understand is rooted in evil. But, from the evil soil that the gods cultivated, a seed of goodness was born. And that seed was soon tainted, as so many others before it._   
__   


He's forced to lay down his quill, his hand too shaky to continue writing. Taking a ragged breath, his shoulders convulse with suppressed sobs as the smell of death hides in his senses. He hasn't cried yet, forcing himself to be unnaturally strong, to be there for the others if they need him.   
  


_Fleur has locked herself in her bedchambers; she hasn't spoken a word since we returned to her mansion. Even the angry glares between Sirius and Severus have stopped; they've reached a hesitant truce for the time being. Our young leader still performs his duties, he's everywhere and yet nowhere, discussing matters with King Arthur, thanking his gargoyles for all their help and preparing to see the International Ministries. But he's not human, he's a robot, acting out what was planned for him. Karkaroff hasn't been seen. Once we Apparated back, he quickly left for downtown Marseilles. I wouldn't doubt that the ex-Death Eater is drinking away his sorrows in some dank pub. Those were once Karkaroff's allies._   
__   


And for a moment, he wishes that nothing was expected of him. 

It hurts to write, it hurts to think, and it even hurts to breathe. His mind feels numb, his eyes are sore_,_ and his aching joints are stiff. He closes his eyes to relax, but quickly reopens them, startled by the images that he sees, and he feels the urge to write once more.   
  


_Flint emerged from the building, his hands stained with blood, his mind lost in thoughts of bloodlust. That's when he was called over by another of his kind, one that I didn't recognise. He had a young woman in his hands, but she didn't struggle to get away. She accepted her fate with dignity.___

_I knew her, dad. Her almond brown eyes, her night black hair. It was all familiar. She looked at me before she died, but she didn't beg for help. She stood proud before that Death Eater, with her white-blond baby in her arms, and waited till he cast the killing curse. But the words never came to his lips! He flung his wand back into his pocket, and lunged at the unsuspecting Ravenclaw, grabbing her child from her arms, while another Death Eater, old student Marcus Flint, held Miss Chang firmly at the shoulders. Cho was forced to watch as her young babe was stabbed three times and eviscerated by that Death Eater with a dull knife.___

_I despised him so much, I wanted to rip their guts out, attack, but I had my orders. I was to protect that senseless git, Gilderoy Lockhart. I stood in the shadows while so many people were being tortured, killed. Freed. The gargoyles rescued so many of our old comrades, and the blood of the enemy stained their claws and teeth and mouths.___

_Have you ever seen a gargoyle attack? It's gruesome, father. Mere words cannot relay the images; I think you need to have seen it. But I will try my best to describe it. Imagine this, if you will. Imagine a large, dragon-like creature hovering about you, diving at you with a swiftness that, before you can blink, finds you impaled upon his teeth. Or talons are tearing you to shreds, and death would be welcomed. Before your eyes, all is a bloody blur, and you watch as humans fall before you, some so horribly disfigured that you cannot tell who they were, or even if they were human.___

_But you haven't seen anything that those Death Eaters are capable of. Compared to our unlikely heroes, those Death Eaters know how to kill someone and still make them feel pain long after they are dead.___

_She died screaming. Miss Cho, she died screaming as Flint snapped her neck, but do you know what your fellow Death Eater did before that? He tortured her, beat her against a brick wall while blood poured down from her head, matting her glistening hair. And he licked it up! He beat that poor lady within an inch of death and then snapped her neck, and there was not a fucking thing I could have done about it because I had my orders!_   
  


The quill begins to move faster across the parchment, writing as though the thoughts will leave his mind if he takes time to think about the words on the paper. His emotions are no longer controlled; he lets the tears fall freely, lets his anger determine the words, while he comes to a few realisations. 

"By Merlin, I need a pensieve," he mutters.   
  


_Have you ever smelt rotting human flesh? Dug your teeth into it, and woken up next to a corpse? I have, father. Because of my uncle's son, I am forever cursed with werewolf blood. Oz, how I detested him when I was younger, and how I hated you for walking out on mother. But now, I think I've come to understand you.___

_Understand the monster within.___

_It only took me forty years, but I get it now.___

_Death Eaters like to kill. It's in their blood, they crave it as a drug. The pain, the fear, the undying sense of power. They like to have control over those weaker than themselves. And that's what that battle was about: control. Malfoy and his followers lost something that was theirs; they controlled it, and now it was being taken from them. They did everything in their power to stop it, and it took all of our power to rescue Lockhart and the few prisoners we could.___

_We came off bloody and defeated, but we have one person who can now help us change the fate of Britain. I just hope we can restore his memory, for without that, he's useless. Useless as I was to you, and I see now that you are trying to compensate for a lost childhood with me. I don't need your pity. I needed a dad. I see something among the despair of people, and a father figure is something that everyone needs. So many people were killed, so many dads joined You-Know-Who to save their families, or just for power, a chance to be someone in a new world.___

_Why did you join?___

_Did you like the kill? Were you once as young Flint?___

_I close my eyes and I can see it. I can see you eviscerating women and children, raping women and killing men. This battle reminded me of my teenage years, when I was only sixteen. You-Know-Who and his followers were terrorising the wizarding village Acheron one night, my hometown. Were you among those Death Eaters, father? Were you banging on our door, did you knock it down and grab cousin Oz by the hair, hurling him across the room and into the wall? As much as I hated my cousin, I hated that Death Eater even more that night. Was it one of your friends who found mother crouched in a closet and raped her as she cried out your name? Who was it that killed her?___

_And why did I survive?___

_Maybe none of those deeds are burnt into your soul. Maybe you were the Death Eater who told me to hush, that if I kept quiet, they'd leave me alone. Oz died that night. Mother died that night. I was sixteen years old, saved by a Death Eater. I was sixteen years old, and I witnessed horror that night. I was sixteen years old, and I was forced to grow up.___

_I think I do understand you now, father.___

_Blood poured from our shack in rivers, as the rivers of Cocytus.___

_And I sailed out alive. I have you to thank for that, dad.___

_Those rivers flowed again the night of February 16. Blood surfing over ice and snow, people screaming in terror, and only a handful getting away. I wasn't bred for battle, none of us were. Fleur, Karkaroff, Sirius, and Snape. We're not heroes, so why must we act like them? And then there's our young leader, seeking assistance any possible way. He's only twenty, his childhood, as the childhood of so many others, was robbed of him.___

_Did you know that Percy Weasley was only five years old when You-Know-Who fell from power? Can you imagine the horrid things he saw as a toddler? The Dark Mark floating in the air, and knowing that somewhere people were dead. That boy was born into an underworld. A kingdom of Hades that we've visited so many times before. And I saw him, father. Not as the pompous Head Boy I remembered him as, but as a Death Eater!___

_Blood was smeared on his face, and in his hair. He was fighting, but I don't think it was with a prisoner. A Weasley may be a Weasley, but Death Eaters are Death Eaters. And I've come to understand a few things about them. About what makes them tick, what makes them take the actions that they take.___

_It's about power.___

_It's about control.___

_And I want you to know that I forgive you._   
__   
__ __

_Your loving son,___

_Remus J. Lupin_   
  


Remus lays down his quill and takes in a gasp of air, realising that he'd hardly breathed for well over two minutes. Rolling the parchment up and tying it together with a silver string, he attaches it to his scops owl and watches as the small bird flies out the window. 

Removing his blood-stained robes, Remus falls into a fitful sleep. 

**~ A heart and soul lay sinking ~**   
**~ And all you want to do is sing along ~**   
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***lyrics brought to you by _A Human Drama_***


	21. Chapter Twenty One : It's About Power,

**Chapter Twenty-One : "It's About Power"**

"Scum," Marcus sneers, regarding his fellow Death Eater with revulsion. He leans forward, letting his rank and alcohol-washed breath sweep over the dishonoured. "There is no excuse for your cowardice! You are a Death Eater; you are the epitome of everything that you never did on that battlefield! You, Pritchard, are a disgrace to the Death Eaters!" 

"I didn't want to be like you." Graham Pritchard forces the feeble and pathetic words past his parched lips as he raises his head. With more effort than it should have taken, he licks the dripping blood from his lips. Marcus strikes him again. Graham's head snaps to the right, and he spews blood mingled with salvia. Keeping his exhausted emerald eyes closed, Graham hangs his head, his carrot orange hair matted with dirt and sweat. 

_Young Slytherin Pritchard went into battle with his wand blazing and his dagger concealed in his boot. Creatures with leathery wings flew above him, rising in the smoky sky before they dived on unsuspecting wizards. One, a large orange gargoyle, zipped past Graham, grabbing one of his comrades by the hood of his robes, and flew back into the air. Soaring with the clouds, the gargoyle released the Death Eater, impaling him with other victims on a shard of metal. Graham watched for a few moments as the Death Eater convulsed before he felt his stomach churning at the scents of metallic blood and human kind at _its worst. 

Slipping into one of the buildings, he vomited in the corner and slumped onto the cold cement floor. Grabbing a flask buried in the many folds of his black velvet robes, he quickly washed his mouth with the burning liquid and spat it out. He stayed hidden in the corner while the sounds of battle rang through his ears and tears fell from his eyes as he leaned his head on the wall. 

Graham was forced to find the courage to stand as an elderly Death Eater, Rookwood, was slammed into the building by a blast of immense fire from Sirius Black's wand. The building suddenly erupted into flames, it's boiler the screaming human torch that was once Rookwood. The stench of searing flesh and cloying smoke caused Graham to heave again, until his stomach was purged, before he was forced from his hiding spot. 

Entering the dismal streets, smoke mingled with the tang of blood and battle. Graham felt fear for the first time, and it ate at him from the inside, starting with his heart. Every fibre of his body chimed with the currents of the strongest magic; Graham couldn't remember feeling anything so powerful before, and for a moment he fell back in awe. He saw witches and wizards run from him, their eyes dead with fear. Most were unsure about what was happening, all they knew was that they must get away. 

Graham slinked into an alley and took another belt from his flask. Behind stacks of firewood, he witnessed two of his senior Death Eaters quarrelling. 

The redheaded Death Eater landed a punch on a black-haired Death Eater, knocking him backwards. The redhead didn't stick around for the other to retaliate; he wiped the blood from his face with the cuff of his robes, but it never came off. Leaving the alley, pained yellow eyes watched him all the way. 

Crouching down, Graham ensured that the black-haired Slytherin couldn't see him. Graham instantly recognised him as having once been a Chaser on the Quidditch team back when Hogwarts was still around. 

The Chaser stalked off, never laying his eyes on Graham, his fists flexing at his side and his jaw clenched at this chance missed. 

The battle lasted only forty-five minutes, but it seemed to drag on for endless days. Graham left shaken; his hands never touched the blood of the innocent. 

"You are an error. Everything about you is an error. If we gave you another chance, you would still be an error," Marcus mocks, jamming his knee into the young man's gut before Graham's brain can even register the pain. 

Graham coughs violently and falls to his knees, droplets of blood dripping like the water from a water clock and forming a pool below his mouth. 

"You're lucky that Malfoy will carry out your punishment, for if it was up to me, you'd die slowly and most painfully. I could hurt you just enough that you wouldn't fall into unconsciousness as you bled to death. You disrespected honour." 

Unable to stand and face Flint, the scrawny seventeen year old forces himself to lift his head, groaning with each crucial movement. "Don't speak"--Graham coughs violently--"to me about honour, Flint. You've become so blinded by power you've forgotten what honour really is! The code we follow is not of honour!" 

Marcus jams his elbow into Graham's back, the sound of shattering bones ricochets through the chamber's ceiling and echoes in Marcus's heart. Graham collapses to the ground, wailing in unspeakable pain, fighting unconsciousness. Two Death Eaters rush forward from the shadows of the doorway. 

"Bloody hell, Flint!" the fair-haired one screams in an Irish brogue. 

"He'll live, but just for death." 

And Marcus exits, leaving Graham whimpering and broken. 

The two Death Eaters watch him go. As his footsteps disappear down the corridor, their hearts decelerate to a normal beat, and they breathe a little bit easier. At their feet, the carrot-topped boy remains until the blond Death Eater withdraws his wand, and takes aim towards Graham. 

"What are you doing, Finnigan!?" his mate fearfully asks, eyes wide. 

Seamus glances over, his blue eyes reflecting nothing but darkness with a sprig of nobility. "Putting this poor bloke out of his misery. We can make Lord Malfoy understand. Percy can make Lord Malfoy understand," he states with a dull voice as Graham's blood washes away his tears. With a shaking breath and a relocation of his eyes, the young Irish wizard casts, "_Avada Kedavra_!" 

*** * ***

After pummelling the four walls in his chambers till his knuckles are raw and bleeding, Marcus sets forth in search of more walls. It's been a while since he tasted the dirt and tang of battle and decay on his lips, a while since he could take his aggressions out on someone and actually kill them. Battle is his true love; he craves everything, from the sense of exhilaration to the rush of adrenaline, that he can only get in conflict. The attack on Camp Phi was exactly what Marcus needed to take his mind from other pressing matters. Nonetheless, there was something else during those three-quarters of an hour that he detested. A war of words with old mate and Quidditch Keeper, William Bletchley. 

William, being Marcus's dorm mate for seven years of the eight years he was at Hogwarts, was like a brother to Marcus. Well, as much as anyone could be a brother to him, anyways. When Snape told Marcus in their second year that the Quidditch captain wanted Marcus as Chaser, William was automatically made Keeper. Three years later, when Marcus was a fourth year and some third year bloke named Oliver Wood was becoming more of an annoyance, Marcus made captain and the Slytherin Quidditch team was reshaped. 

For two years, the Quidditch Cup was theirs. Then, the same year that Oliver Wood made captain, the Gryffindor team was bestowed a new Seeker--The Boy Who Refused to Die. Marcus was a sixth year when this happened, and he never again saw the Quidditch Cup engraved with the Slytherin team's players. 

Then in his seventh year, Marcus kicked William from the team for dim-witted reasons that orbited some fifth year witch. Cressida Capulet was her name, and for a while she was the object of Marcus's lust. 

William couldn't keep his business in his robes; after a game where a rogue Bludger broke the Gryffindor Seeker's arm, Marcus watch as Cressida became more to William than just his best mate's bird. 

Acting as he usually does--irrationally and with brute force--Marcus kicked William from the Quidditch team and in general, hereby ensuring his reputation of being a callous bastard. For Marcus, life was good once more. That is, until he got the results from his N.E.W.T.s. Zero is the lowest score someone can accomplish. 

Marcus scored negative five. 

He decided, quite angrily, that he didn't care. This was just another year to play Quidditch, and Snape would ensure that he'd play; he was the best, after all. His time was spent writing new strategies, stealing Wood's, or practicing in the harshest of conditions. Draco Malfoy was getting better, surpassing that wuss Terence Higgs, and soon, Marcus found another thing to fill his time. 

That thing was Adrian Pucey's girlfriend. And by the end of Marcus's second seventh year, with the help of a witch and wizard, she belonged to Marcus. 

Lost in anger but never in thought, Marcus finds himself passing her bedchambers. He doesn't knock, he doesn't believe he has to knock, and with a loud hammering, the door bursts open, slamming against the wall before bouncing back and shutting. 

"Oh, bollocks," Rae mutters, as she cracks open a fatigued eye. 

Her chambers are darkened except for the soft glow of flames from strawberry scented candles hanging from the walls. The fire blazes in the fireplace, bathing the clammy room in unneeded, yet wanted, heat. 

"Get up." 

"Sod off." 

Marcus lunges forward into the chamber, the familiar scent of strawberries filling his lungs with each ragged breath. Quickly, his blinking eyes adjust to the darkness and he demands again, "Get up!" 

"It's three o'clock in the morning," Rae mumbles, her face buried in her feather pillow and the thick quilted blankets pulled over her head. "Sod off." 

Marcus glares at her, sneering. "Four o'clock," he corrects coldly. Walking over to her bed in three large steps, he seats himself next to Rae, who has angled her head away from him. Reaching over, he wraps his calloused hands around her chocolate tresses and jerks her head towards him violently. "Get. the. fuck. up." 

Rae whimpers, a cold chill surfing down her spine even though the heat in the room causes beads of sweat to form, and sits up in bed. When Marcus just stares at her, Rae slouches her shoulders and closes her eyes, feeling the power of sleep wash over her. She's dressed in a light green satin nightgown that leaves nothing to the imagination, enhancing the soft lines of cleavage, and chocolate hair messily frames her pale face. 

Suddenly, Marcus wrenches the sheet from Rae's shaking grasp, and she cringes faintly, chewing on her lower lip. Marcus's hard black eyes roll over Rae, hungrily taking in her every curve as her nightdress clings to her clammy skin. Her blue eyes are empty, and a sense of boredom and exhaustion rests in her facial features. Rae tilts her head to the side, staring into Marcus's eyes, afraid of what might be staring back at her. 

Marcus's eyes are dark, intense and strong, with a fire burning in the pupils that consumes all reflection. He grabs Rae at her wrist, jerking her towards him, and she stumbles into his chest. Wrapping his hands around her hair, he yanks her head back, pressing his lips forcibly to hers in bruising kisses. 

Marcus abruptly pulls away, striking Rae across the cheek so hard that both her cheek and his hand are throbbing, one more than the other. She's pitched against the headboard, and Marcus jerks to his feet. 

Staring down at her with those eyes that she's grown accustom to, Marcus crosses his arms over his black-robed chest. "Malfoy has ordered an audience before his Death Eaters at dawn in the First Ceremonial Hall to address the events of yesterday." Marcus extends his hand, silently commanding Rae to take it, and he yanks her to her feet. Running his index finger along Rae's collarbones, she swallows the lump forming in her throat. "This is a victory to him. But no matter what he says, we lost. Lost good people, lost that camp." He pauses for what seems like a thought. "Have I ever told you about Bletchley?" 

Rae blankly stares ahead. 

"Real fucking toffee-nosed bloke. Had him as Keeper for five years, one of the best on the team. He could have surpassed Wood's talents, if he could have kept his business in his robes. I heartlessly kicked him from the team, as I did to Higgs. I put my own resentment over what was best for the team. And do you know what?" Marcus's hands land on Rae's shoulders, his dirty fingernails digging into her flesh, drawing fresh blood. Rae flinches, digging her nails into her palm, forcing herself not to show the pain that Marcus would take much satisfaction in. 

"W-what?" she inelegantly stammers. 

Marcus flashes Rae a crooked grin. "I'd do it again if I ever had the chance." He removes his fingernails from her skin, her blood staining them, running from the wounds and dripping down her shoulders. "Remorse is a weakness," he sneers as he trails his tongue up Rae's shoulder, licking the red blood. He feels Rae shudder beneath him, and he presses closer to her. 

"Your emotions don't bind you, they set you free," Rae replies, neither thinking nor caring about the consequences of her words. "Your fists shouldn't do the talking, or is that what you resort to when your intelligence fails you? A pummelling instead of logical words, right? You say your emotions don't control you, but you let your anger rule you." She rests against the wall, the stone unusually warm on her clothed back. 

Marcus clenches his fists at his side, his jaw tightens, his eyes avert to the floor. "I come here looking for comfort and this is what I get? A nagging whore who doesn't know what she's talking about?" he whispers through gritted teeth. Marcus brings his eyes back towards Rae, and she gasps as she imagines Death in their reflection. "Find something else to do with your mouth other than talking; no one wants to hear you!" 

Rae flushes a deep red with embarrassment and anger, but refuses to let Marcus win this battle. Shaking inside, but forcing herself to remain calm on the outside, Rae lets her emotions run free. "You don't rule me, Marcus! I shouldn't have to think and believe everything you say! It's barbaric and dim-witted and irrational and . . . and . . ." 

Rae stalls, interrupted when Marcus wraps his hand around her neck. He tightens his hold when Rae gasps for breath, his eyes laughing at her as a sneer plays across his lips. With many thoughts running through her mind that she cannot begin to make sense of, she desperately claws at his forearms, silently begging him to release her. She rips strips of skin from his arms with her nails, which Marcus sniggers slowly at before he hurls her across the room. 

Rae smashes into the mirror hanging from the wall, shattering it into a sea of sharp slivers that graze across her skin, drawing painful blood and ripping her thin nightgown. Collapsing onto the ground, her body trembles with buried sobs as splinters of glass stick to her skin or embed themselves in the fine wounds. 

"Next time, keep your mouth shut!" Marcus warns as his footfalls sound out her chambers and down the corridor. 

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Rae staggers slowly to her feet, leaning upon the wall for a much-needed support. Shaking uncontrollably, she eases herself towards the bathroom, the cuts along her legs and arms seeping warm blood and leaving spots on her once spotless floor. 

Stumbling into the bathroom, she peels the moist and bloody fabric from her body, and discards it into the corner. As she turns on the faucet, clear and cool water fills the bathtub, and it soon darkens to red when Rae submerges herself. 

*** * ***

The First Ceremonial Hall is decorated with medieval weapons that once drew blood from and killed a king. In the centre is a long, maple table where the most important Death Eaters congregate, around a hundred in total. Adorning the stone walls are banners of the old Hogwarts houses (in remembrance and respect, Lucius had once said) and portraits of a young Voldemort, Grindelwald, and the newest, Lucius Malfoy. 

Lucius, who stands at the end of the table with a goblet of red wine in hand, wordlessly stares at each of his imperative Death Eaters in turn. Gathered around him are none other than Gene Avery, Marcus Flint, Percy Wealsey, and Seamus Finnigan, to name a few. 

"My friends and loyal Death Eaters," Lucius starts, carefully selecting his words. "A few days ago, we made history." He pauses, but only for the applause from the Death Eaters. He raises his hand. "Silence, please. That faction known as the Last Alliance will be just that--the last alliance. They attacked us and lost. They attacked us, and our defences held. They attacked us, and I doubt they will again in the near future. For the next time they attack, we will spare no defence. This is a victory, my friends. Those who fought bravely and died bravely will be honoured in death, and those who survived to tell the tales of their battle scars will be rewarded. 

"Let it be known that from this day forward, Marcus Flint will be an honorary guard. Edward Mulciber has been promoted to the head of Camp Omega. Benjamin Lestrange the new commander of the Blue boarder patrols! 

"We must show those wizards that this left us unjaded, and we must revel in the soft rays of victory. In a week's time, there will be another Quidditch match to celebrate, and I leave that matter in the hands of Percy Weasley. Let him prepare a spectacle that will leave us cheering for more, a spectacle befitting of the victors of that battle!" More cheers and applause, and Percy nervously slumps down into his seat. Lucius raises his goblet, the red wine sloshing against the crystal sides. 

"A toast, my friends. To victory!" 

"To victory!" they echo. 


	22. Chapter Twenty Two : Games of Truth

****

Chapter Twenty-Two : Games of Truth

A lone wizard walks towards a house full of childish memories. A waning moon disappears behind the storm cloud rolling in, and the wind howls like a wolf, cutting through his robes. He pauses, his foot shaking as he hesitates to step onto the porch of the quaint little home. Memories of happier times flash through his mind, times when he was able to be a kid. Letters written by a loving woman were born here, filled with love, joy, anger, and astonishment for when he passed his N.E.W.T.s with the highest mark in his house. 

Lightning cracks above him as rain begins to pour, hastening his decision to enter the charred remains of the house of his childhood. What remains of the Peterborough home are pictures of long-dead relatives and loving parents. Tears swell in his eyes and drip onto the pictures. He realises he's crying and wipes his eyes with the dirty sleeve of his grey robes. 

Stepping over a fallen crossbeam, his booted feet slip on a shaft of oak wood that was not harmed from the fire. His head drops, and he inspects the object. A wand. Belonging to the loved one who died in this house, the one to whom he's come to say goodbye. Picking up the wand, he slips it into the pocket of his robes.

"Wands characterise the people who use them. Oak, for example, rules over life. It's as strong as the thunder gods and withstand time," a voice says from behind him.

Quickly, he turns, his light brown hair whipping in his hazel eyes. "W-who are you?" he stutters, shocked to discover that he's not alone.

"Forgive me, Young One. But that wand you hold is a family heirloom, used by my father and passed through the generations. It alone survived the destruction of this house where its owner could not."

The wizard slowly nods, but his interest isn't in the words; rather, it is in the stranger himself. Wearing a full suit of chain mail, an empty scabbard hangs at his side. A long, flowing mane of golden hair hangs loosely past his shoulders, and crystal blue eyes that have seen too much pain stare forward at the young wizard standing before him. In his right hand, he holds a shield with the Gryffindor house emblem upon it. 

"Who are you?" the live wizard asks.

The apparition looks directly at him. "The question you should be asking is not who I am, but who you are."

He scoffs at this. "I already know who I am. I am . . . " the words fail him, and a look of betrayal creeps over his face as he realises his brain has left him.

The ghost's lips part into a warm and knowing smile. "I know who you are. It's now time for you to discover who you are, the power that you hold within." The ghost whispers words in arcane magick that the other wizard can't hear. Extending his left hand, he makes a gesture as if to capture air, and pulls it back towards him. In his palm an orb has materialised. "To understand who you are, you must understand your past, your present, and your future. The past is the hardest to remember; everything else will become clear with it."

The orb bursts into a metallic red and gold light, illuminating the house.

"Look into it, Young One. Welcome to the voyage of self-discovery."

The brown-haired wizard peers into the orb, and his eyes glaze over. What he sees before him are not images, rather they are emotions, secrets, truths, and lies. As he lives these memories, his mouth opens slackly, and his body relaxes. A silent howl of pain passes his lips as the lives of his ancestors pass through his eyes. The time when Hogwarts was founded to the time of his birth, these images and more are emitted from the orb.

The light dies, and the orb blinks out of existence, rejoining the air that it came from. The hazel-eyed wizard stares at the ghost of Godric Gryffindor before a rush of pain engulfs his entire body, leaving him falling to his knees and clutching his head with his hands.

"Don't fight it, son, let it happen," Godric says, his smooth voice relaxing the wizard who is wracked with pain.

A sweeping pain covers his back as his skin tears and bleeds feathers and blood. From the gaping holes left in the shoulder blades, wings are born, and golden-brown fur grows quickly over his body. Digging his nails into the charred soil, he rakes his them through the dirt only to realise that he has talons, not human hands. His tailbone breaks, and he wails, but the immense pain fades as the bones restructure themselves and break through his skin. A tail of bones lashes at the air, and as the transformation comes to an end with his nose and mouth elongating into a beak, skin and fur generate over the griffin's new tail, and feathers at the base of his head.

Rearing his head into the air, the griffin shrieks in triumph. 

****

* * *

For as long as he will live, Oliver Wood will never forget the first infamous Quidditch match. Now, nearly a year later, when the snow is melting on the ground and dawn comes late, twenty-eight players dress in robes and leather gloves, clutching their broomsticks in their pale hands.

Emotions run as deep as the rivers of the underworld, and the players are stone statues. Some carved in nervousness, others in excitement, a few in fear, and the rest in despondence. Grim as if they are going into battle, the houses of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw glance at each other in apprehension.

Oliver draws his tongue over his cracked lips, swallowing a lump of fear. He stares thoughtlessly across the Quidditch Pitch at the Death Eater who many either blamed or thanked for this event. Percy Weasley was set with the task of arranging the second Quidditch game, but as Oliver's eyes drag across the scene before him, he cannot help but think that Percy isn't responsible for the changes to the game. Oliver knows that Lucrece Lestrange, the new referee, has had her grubby hands on it as well.

Last year, the teams met in the centre. This year, they won't be able to. The roots beneath the Pitch don't sprout grass this spring; instead, silver barbed wire grows from the soil, bunching from goal post to goal post. Those who are unfortunate enough to fall from their brooms will become well acquainted with the wire. A great sadness comes over Oliver as he realises this.

Alexander Montague wipes his eyes before he curses himself for smearing his black eyeliner. Glancing at his team mates, his gaze lingers on the Beaters. The woman is still here, he thinks scornfully. But where his beloved Leland Derrick should have been was a burly, Irish bloke. Alexander recalls his name as Ezekiel O'Haire. Turning away, Alexander's thoughts drift to a shard of wood that guards his dreams on sleepless nights.

Terence Higgs fixes his eyes on Alexander and wishes he could know what the young man is thinking. Beside him stands Adrian Pucey, and though the silence is awkward, it is welcomed. It isn't until Terence's knuckles are white from gripping his broom that Adrian clears his throat and speaks.

"Terence, I . . . uh . . . listen . . . umm . . ." Adrian hesitates. "Here." He shoves a small box at Terence, and blinking, Terence takes it. Slowly removing the top, Terence pulls out two chromatic gloves. They're made from chain mail and latch just above the elbows.

"What are these?"

"You'll need them, Seeker. Just put them on."

Terence does as he's told. Rolling up his green sleeves, he slips the chain mail gloves beneath the leather ones that all players wear. "Marcus didn't say anything about this to me."

Adrian's face hardens. "Exactly."

And just as Adrian is warning Terence in his own way about the new Snitch with the razor wings, which the Seekers are forced to catch, the whistle is blown. Twenty-eight players mount, kick into the air, and take their positions, most staring down at the barbed wire below them.

****

* * *

As the whistle sounds, a private conversation between Lucius Malfoy and Percy Weasley begins in the private balcony overlooking the Pitch. With Marie and Fyre's safety in mind, Lucius requested that they watch the game from his box. But Marie has no interest in the game; instead, she plays with her four-month-old son. 

"You know what makes me a good leader, Weasley?" Lucius begins, his eyes watching as Slytherin Marcus Flint and Ravenclaw Roger Davies take the Quaffles. "I can take a horrible defeat and turn it into a simple victory with the morale ever so growing. As I recall, you were there. Where are your battle scars?"

If looks could kill, Lucius's head would have exploded. "I don't have to explain myself to you, Malfoy." Percy's voice comes cold, his eyes remaining on the game below in the silver field.

"_Lord _Malfoy," Lucius corrects.

"Sod off," Percy grumbles as he then cheers on his brother, who just smashed a Bludger towards Marcus Flint, almost knocking him off his broom. With a smirk playing at his lips, he comments, "If your new honorary guard isn't careful, he's going to meet his end."

"I wouldn't cry." Lucius laughs to himself as a sadistic grin crosses his face.

A look of pure confusion crosses Percy's freckled face, and he turns to Lucius for the first time since he was invited into the private box. "What possessed you to promote him, then? He's likely to stab you in the back with your own knife."

Lucius taps the side of his nose twice, and winks with his left eye. "Exactly. He was promoted solely so I could keep an eye on him. Must keep that bloke on a leash tighter than the one he keeps his woman on. He's likely to kill someone when he's angry. Look what happened to Graham Pritchard."

"Why didn't you just execute Flint?" Percy furrows his red eyebrows.

Lucius gazes at Percy emotionlessly, before turning back to the game, his hands on his staff. "Do you notice what happens when Flint enters a room? People shake; they're scared to cross him. What he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for in brute force. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in pure luck."

Percy nods, and an anxious hush falls over the crowd as a Bludger screams directly towards their leader. Percy and Lucius duck as it grazes their hair and bounces off the head of the Death Eater on the honorary guard standing outside the door on duty. He falls in a heap. 

Gene Avery's voice booms over the speakers, "And--oh my--what a show! That Bludger zipped right past Lord Malfoy and Weasley, and right into Rede's face! Quite a show indeed! Ravenclaw and Gryffindor are back in possession now, Ginny Weasley soaring towards the Slytherin goal posts with Travis Nott hot on her tail! . . ."

Lucius sits back in his seat, idly brushing the creases from his elegant velvet robes. "Bloody hell, that was close." Percy nods an agreement, and Lucius continues. "I must say, though, that I'm depressed we lost Camp Phi, lost the Death Eaters who defended it, and lost the prisoners who were there. But we were able to repel them, so I'm torn between being proud and disheartened. Tell me, Weasley, what do you think?"

Percy doesn't have to stop to think about his position. "That was a defeat, Lucius. Through any other eyes, that would have still been a defeat. You said at the beginning that it takes a great leader to turn a defeat into victory. It takes a greater leader to admit defeat and pick himself up, brush himself off, and start again. In my _humble _opinion, sir, I'd double our defensives and discover where this Last Alliance is working from, where those refugees have gone. Ask Miss Nefertari about any information she could give us; surely being International Minister has its benefits," Percy says.

Lucius nods slowly, considering Percy's words with much thought and respect. "Excellent idea, Weasley. Of course, I've owled Tahirah already, and although the message was strictly pleasure, I had to tell her the good news."

"Good news?"

"I'm going to make an honest woman of her daughter."

Percy snickers. "And this was decided _after _the baby was born?"

Lucius casts Percy a death glare, his eyes reflecting swords and fire. "Fyre Angelus Malfoy was unexpected!" he reinforces briskly, banging his staff against the wooden floorboards twice.

"I'm sorry, Lucius. I didn't quite hear you. A mistake, you said, _sir_?" Percy asks haughtily, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his freckled face once more.

"Unexpected, Weasley! Watch your tongue, or I just may cut it out."

Appreciating the irony of that threat, Percy reacts with the same response as Lucius once did a little less than a year ago. "With a spoon, I hope," Percy chuckles.

". . . Michael Corner _had _the Golden Snitch . . . I . . . think," as Gene's voice roars over the speakers, he scratches his balding head. Under his breath, he's heard mumbling, "What the hell? It flew right through his hand! That lad's taken a lot of punishment, I wouldn't be surprised if his great grandchildren feel that pain. . . ."

And just as Michael Corner dives, he wraps his right hand around the Snitch, thinking this a sure victory for Hufflepuff. Before he realises what's happening, a glint of gold was showing through his skin, as though a scarab was digging it's way out of his flesh. Shock and adrenaline cruises through his veins, blocking out his pain receptors. It takes him a moment to scream, and when he does, everyone stops. Quidditch players hang in midair, and the crowd cheers at the sight of blood. 

Lucius leaps to his feet, excited and elated at the thought that one of his Death Eaters came up with something so cruel. He turns to Percy, "Who came up with that idea? I'd love to meet him." He grins, his smile stretching from ear to ear, but it slowly turns into a frown when he realises Percy is laughing at him.

"I'd love to introduce her to you, but you already know who it is," Percy replies.

Shock washes over Lucius as he realises it was a female Death Eater. "Her?"

"Lucrece Lestrange," Percy informs sardonically. "It was her idea, she's judging the game. She promised us a lot more blood and a lot less death. That was the only way we could get the teams to agree to another game, although they don't know about the special equipment added to the balls."

"Balls?"

Percy sighs, "I thought you knew about this. For being our leader, you certainly seem to have your head in the sand. At a predetermined time, the Bludgers will turn into Razor Bludgers, and they are set to attack all but Slytherin. The Quaffles are quite explosive, and with Lucrece's own personal stash of blasting powder that she tinkered with, they're set to explode when the whistle is blown. And whoever holds it goes down with it." Percy frowns. "Hopefully it won't kill them."

Lucius begins to laugh a mirthless laugh. "I remember this all too well. I remember what happened to her when she blew up half the Slytherin wing of Hogwarts under the supervision of the late Professor Killian, the potions teacher back then. They got along quite well--some might have said too well--for their affinity for explosives. Oh, and you can't forget about her brother. He was the one who provided them with the ingredients. He was the kleptomaniac of the Slytherin house back then. If you had something shiny, he'd be on it just like a moth on a candle. You'd be lucky if you ever saw it again. Speaking of which, he still owes me--" for a moment, Lucius is distracted by the sight of a Slytherin falling from her now broken broom. And Gene's voice is heard again:

" . . . Foul! Cheater! Ref, do something about this! We can't have Slytherins beating on Slytherins! Someone catch that young lady before she hit's the ground. Oh. Bollocks. Too late. . . . And Ravenclaw is back in possession now . . ."

Just as Roger Davies dodges under Ron Weasley of Gryffindor, Marcus Flint passes the Beater's bat back to Ezekiel O'Haire with a crooked, cruel sneer.

Rae lands on her side among the strings of barbed wire; it cuts through her robes and penetrates her skin. From the corner of her eye, she notices Pansy Parkinson rush to her feet, wand in hand. Performing the necessary charm, Pansy levitates Rae's body and eases her onto the grass away from the Pitch. 

With a wet cloth, Pansy wipes the blood from Rae's exposed skin and her forehead. Cringing in pain, Rae angrily brushes Pansy's hand away and attempts to stand. She falls back to the ground, though, her pupils dilating with anger as she glares at Marcus, who had just scored ten points.

"Miss Landon, are you all right?" Pansy asks urgently, swabbing Rae's forehead again. 

"Of course I am!" Rae snaps, grabbing the bloody cloth and hurling it behind her. 

Adrian brings his Firebolt Air to a stop, his heart in his throat as he fearfully watches Pansy attend to Rae. Whipping his head around, he scans the air for Marcus, who couldn't be bothered about his actions. Half the game stops around them as some watch the actions that the Slytherin might take, while others continue playing the game without caring what happened to the Slytherins.

"That's very poor sportsmanship on Marcus's part," Percy comments to Lucius. "Maybe you should talk to your honorary guard about the way he treats her. We don't need another dead Death Eater on our hands because of his actions."

Lucius nods, "I'll think about it. It's hard to put a leash on a beast like him, but that's what I'm trying to do. Besides, I think Pucey will take care of it," he says as glances up and sees Adrian driving towards Marcus with a balled fist. 

The sound of cheers is drowned out by the thunderous roar of a glorious golden beast flying overhead. A beast that has not been seen in the time of the founding of Hogwarts, it cast shadows over those beneath it. Those true Death Eaters recognise the symbol of the Gryffindor house, and they cower in fear at the sign of the ill omen. 

The game grinds to a halt. 

Fear strikes the heart of Adrian Pucey as the griffin hovers inches away from his nose. Too afraid to move, and unable to speak or breath, Adrian's eyes widen in amazement that he's not being eviscerated by the vicious beast. The griffin takes a long sniff at Adrian, and rears his head back to snap at Marcus, who is near, looking ready and able to jump on his back. The griffins turns from Adrian and charges at Marcus, nipping at his right hand and catching a finger with his sharp beak, biting it clean off. With a look of absolute disgust on his face, the griffin spits the finger out and returns to his original prey. And just stares.

An eerie feeling washes over Adrian. He wants to run but he can't, locked in the hazel eyes of the beast. He starts to realise that something isn't sitting well. With a fleeting look at Adrian, the griffin turns and heads to the clouds. A few Death Eaters mount their brooms to give chase to this magnificent beast, but as they disappear into the clouds, the sound of flesh tearing from bones echoes down to the stadium. The robes of those Death Eaters are all that is found after this day. 


	23. Chapter Twenty Three : Master of Magneti...

****

Chapter Twenty-Three : Master of Magnetism

  
  
"Excuse me, excuse me. Could you quite possibly tell me who you are?"Golden-blond hair falls in waves around the wizard's handsome features, accentuating his perfect smile and perfect nose. He wears lilac robes that are trimmed with white lace, befitting of a king with their soft, velvet texture. His eyes are forget-me-not blue and vacant, gazing around the room in wonder, he knows not where he is and every new experience is a joy to him. He sits on a lavender-cushioned chair (he was offered a red one, but he claimed it clashed with his robes), and his hands are folded neatly on his lap. His shoes, adorned with golden stitching and bells, are polished and the darkest shade of purple.  
  
The wizard across from the absentminded young man exhales in exasperation, and rubs the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. His light brown hair, with a few prematurely grey strands, falls scraggily around his pale face and to the base of his neck. His eyes are unique, a yellowish colour that haunts him always, and he squeezes them shut. "For the last time, I'm Remus Lupin."

The golden-haired wizard nods slowly, licking his glossed lips. "Right, right. . . . Who am I?" He looks to another wizard in the chamber for his answer.

"Gilderoy Eric Lockhart," Severus Snape replies, grating his teeth.

Gilderoy brightens, his pearly-white teeth flashing and lighting up the room. "Yes, yes. I remember now." He gawks around the library, from the four annoyed wizards to the beautiful witch (Gilderoy considers that she's nearly as beautiful as he is), and stops at Sirius Black. A blissfully confused look sweeps back over the fair-skinned Gilderoy. "Where am I?"

Sirius straightens, surprised at being addressed when he stands hidden in the over casting shadows of the lofty bookshelves. "In Marseilles. Delacour's Manor, to be precise," Sirius replies flatly.

"Hmm, righty-oh." He tilts his head. "Why?"

Fleur tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and glances up from the Muggle romance novel she's reading. "We liberated you," she answers simply, and goes back to her book with the muscular, bronzed men and full-breasted, scantily clad women on the cover.

"Did I need this . . . liberation?"

Severus takes a belt from a flask. "Unfortunately."

Gilderoy ponders these recent and repeated proclamations. The air is quiet once more, something he's used to and, in fact, welcomes now. For far too long his thoughts have been alone in his mind, when he has these thoughts, that is. He isn't able to remember much since that incident in 1992; it rather goes into one ear and out the other. He remembered a padded room, screaming nurses, and a large explosion that tore at the earth. The next time he blinked, he was living in a building with strangers, passing each day with bells on his feet, as wizards in black kept things in order. Then, just as he grew accustomed to that life, he was whisked away to a wondrous place that fed him foods of the Gods, bathed him in fragranced waters, and dressed him in robes of luxury.

Gilderoy glances around the room with delight, taking in the many stacks of priceless books and large crystal windows with wide eyes. He leans comfortably back, only to jump out of his seat when the mahogany doors to the library bang open.

And in walks a distinguished fellow, his brown robes billowing around his ankles.

"Who are you?" asks Gilderoy, hoping he can process all this new information. "And who am I?"

"Someone gag Joseph here," is the only response from the black-haired wizard who commands the Last Alliance. Letting the doors slam together, he quickly paces past Gilderoy, who looks up at him with **marvel**.

Severus keenly steps forward. "With pleasure," he exclaims, gagging 'Joseph'.

Seeing the urgency and exasperation reflected in their commander's eyes and stride, Remus stands. "What's wrong?"

The heir of Merlin stands in the centre of the room, arms rigidly at his side, hands grasping the cloth of his robes. His alliance surrounds him. "The International Ministry refuses to help us still," he informs, his voice listless. "As long as Tahirah Nefertari is the Minister, we can't count on them. But we're not conquered yet. And never forget that. The Death Eaters' faults lie in believing that they have defeated us. They won't be expecting another attack so near in the future. We have a month to research the heir of Gryffindor, because on the first dawn of April twentieth I want to infiltrate the camp that he's in. Now, here is what we know:

"Whoever this heir may be, he was sorted in Gryffindor. He has a hidden power, and for some reason that we have yet to figure out, he hasn't been able to tap into it. I've read in Merlin's Book of Shadows that Godric Gryffindor had the ability to polymorph into a griffin, but I've accessed the old records and there's no Animagi who can do this. So, either this wizard doesn't know of his ability, or he's an unregistered Animagus.

"I've consulted lists of those who've graduated from Gryffindor in the last forty years; eliminated the names of those who've died or the names of those who've joined with the Death Eaters. That leaves families such as the Wealseys, the Longbottoms, the Woods and Creeveys, the Jordans, Browns, McGonagalls, the Harrises, Morgans, and the MacTaggerts, just to name a few. Here," he passes each a thick booklet, thrown quickly together with various documents, "these deal with the recent genealogy of all of the families. With any luck, the information contained will help us in some way.

"I have business in Romania with Hagrid, the giants, and the dragons, but I should be back in two weeks time. Until then, Remus will be in charge of all affairs. Dumbledore saved a few spell books in 1996, and Hagrid has been keeping them. I hope that they might be able to help our Joseph here blossom into a Magneto. Until then, I'm afraid he must be constantly watched, and--Karkaroff, there's an owl outside the window."

Karkaroff cranes his head over his shoulder and climbs to his feet. Approaching the window, he curses lightly. "This isn't your normal, mediocre owl," he whispers hoarsely. "This is a Sjöstedt's Owlet."

The owl scratches impatiently on the window with red-orange claws, her bright yellow eyes wide. The breast feathers are a copper colour, and wings brown and white. She's small, around seven inches with a double wingspan, and has a yellow-orange beak suitable for tearing rodents fed to her by her master.

"Native to parts of Africa," Karkaroff finishes as he opens the window. Removing the parchment from the owl's claws, she quickly takes her leave.

"Well?" Karkaroff recognises the edgy voice as Sirius's.

Karkaroff reads, _" 'Karkaroff and fellow clangers of the Last Alliance,_

My daughter is getting married to the Lord of Britain. I'm giving my daughter away to Lord Lucius Malfoy for the second time in my life, and I couldn't be more pleased. Malfoy laughed in the face of your attack, and they celebrated with a Quidditch match. And you expected my Ministers and their countries to aid you in your war? Maybe you should consider joining the winning side, and then maybe I will consider holding an audience with you.

Cordially,

Tahirah Nefertari

International Minister of Magic' "

As Karkaroff dictates the words, the parchment erupts into flames. A safety device, in case this letter were to be placed into the wrong hands by those of theLast Alliance. With blank expressions and confusion filling the room through the cracks, the commander speaks with a cracking voice, "Why--why is she telling us this?"

"Because. She doesn't fear us," Karkaroff replies, voice quavering.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four : Amen

****

Chapter Twenty-Four : Amen

Halloween, more often known as Samhain among the Pagans, of the previous year was the last time that a living soul walked in the Graveyard of Forgotten Souls. Lucius Malfoy stalls at the iron gates, and his glacier blue eyes, rimmed with crow's feet wrinkles, drift over the metropolis of tombstones and crypts, stopping momentarily at the south side. The Potter mausoleum and the Malfoy mausoleum stand with nothing but budding trees between them.

Vines with white and blue flowers grow around the broken pillars of the Potter burial chamber, and graffiti mars the walls. Moss grows to the North, and ruined rubble blocks a path to the entrance.

On the other hand, the Malfoy mausoleum is an intense spectacle. Large flowers surround it, a sea of green, white and purple. No moss grows to the North, and the marble stones are not tainted with blood or desecration. Silver letters spell out the name of the honoured family above the entrance, and a plaque there depicts an eagle holding two ribbons, one gold and the other black. The path leading to the last resting place of Lucius's ancestors and first wife and son are stepping stones without cracks, surrounded by low-growing plants.

"You're a killer, born to slash and bash and bleed like beautiful poetry, no little tinker toy could ever stop you from flying," Lucius quotes in a whisper as he takes a step into the graveyard, his boots pressing into the sodden grass. The gates swing shut in an elongated groan, and his snake-staff clicks on the stepping stones. He approaches the mausoleum in a dry silence and pauses at the entryway of his former life.

"Narcissa," he murmurs in a voice he barely recognises.

Entering the sepulchre, Lucius's heart quivers, and he considers turning back. But he feet won't listen to his mind, and he closes the door behind him. The inside of the mausoleum is dark, and worn white candles line the walls in homage. Sealed sarcophaguses border the crypt, around five in total. Most are made from grey marble or granite. The base is void of all cobwebs or dust, as though all organisms are afraid to tread on Malfoy soil.

Lighting one of the candles, Lucius takes it and sets it on a sarcophagus of marble. Running his hands over the smooth lid, he exhales slowly, his memory overcome with images of past love and past happiness. "I've come here to tell you I've let you go," he continues. "Things have changed since you walked this earth, and we now sleep on a bed of bones. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, my dear, and through our union you never had to sacrifice anything. Some people thought that was the only reason you married me, but I knew better. _We _knew better. Oh, we may not have showed it in public, but our family knew love as any other family. Our family knew heartbreak and sorrow, and we knew triumph. You always believed that a Malfoy is worthy of the better things in life, and it pains me now to think that you never had the chance to walk the path I have. But though you may not be with me physically, you are with me spiritually.

"I am to be married this day, Narcissa. A second wife, the second woman who has captured my fancy. I know you'd hate her, you'd think she was too young, or not worthy of me, or maybe not as beautiful as a Malfoy wife should be. Her hair may be too dark, or her breasts too large, and maybe this is why I've become enamoured with her, she is all you are not."

Lucius's eyes wander off into the distance and for a fleeting moment, Narcissa is staring back at him. Her hands are clasped before her--she never knew what to do with them--and she wears fluttering white robes which are now transparent blue, as her skin. Lucius blinks dubiously, and the ghost vanishes. He's not too sure if she was ever there, but the sad expression on her face leads him to think otherwise.

"Now, don't look at me like that, my dear. I do not wed this girl to spite you, nor to make a point. I chose her because she is not like you, and that is a pain I could not handle upon wakening every morning. To look into her eyes and see you, and knowing that I would never again hold you in my arms. She is different from you as the sun in day and the moon at night.

"I was once married to the moon, and now I am to marry the sun. There is a time in the day when the moon is always vacant from the sky, and that is the time I must walk into now."

Lucius bows his head, and the candle's flame dies with a soft breeze that passes through the cracks of the walls. Circling around him, the winds waft past his kept white-blond hair, and a woman's seductive voice purrs from all directions except those of which are closest to him.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep.  
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,  
I am the gentle autumn's rain." 

Lucius's eyes widen, but not in fear. He rises to his feet, and grabs for his staff, which he had set against the entry. Glancing warily around the mausoleum, the voice seems to follow, chanting out its death poem. Though the voice does belong to Narcissa, Lucius doesn't acknowledge it. This is the voice of a woman who has known only sorrow in her short life.  
_  
"When you awaken in the morning's hush,  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the stars that shine at night."_

"Show yourself!" Famous last words.  
  
The voice deepens, till it becomes the eerie tone heard last Halloween by Rae, Adrian, and Marcus. It echoes around him, rustling the tails of his black dress robes, and he angrily searches the room for a sign of life. His hair whips around him, and his pupils dilate in rage.  
_  
"Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
I am not there, I did not die. . . ."_

But the sign of life he finds is not that of a transparent blue ghost.

"Sir?" Gene Avery appears at the sepulchre's doorway. "We're ready to start."

Lucius jumps slightly, flustered. With his hand going to his wand, he spins around and stares at his Best Man. It takes a moment for Lucius to identify Gene. His heart hammers inside his chest, and he takes a deep breath, holding it, to slow his breathing.

"Are you all right, Lucius?" Gene asks, his voice showing his concern.

Lucius nods, and the colour flushes back into his cheeks. With a fleeting look at Narcissa's coffin, he follows Gene from the mausoleum, the death poem still ringing in his ears.

* * *

The ghost of Narcissa Malfoy watches with watery eyes as her husband departs from her life. "You need not ask for my permission to remarry, Lucius. All I have ever wanted was your happiness. I forgive you for the choices you will make in this life, and I will be contented to know that I will always own your heart."

From the shadows emerges another ghost. A male, his hair is disarrayed and his arms are crossed over his chest. He had followed his mother's soul from the Summerland, curious to see why she quickly fled to Earth. Draco snorts. "You may forgive him, Mother. But I never will."

* * *

****

Lord make me an instrument of your peace.

The circular chamber is constructed in the heart of the castle, its stone walls two inches thick. Incense coils hang at five points from the ceiling, forming a star if they happened to be joined by invisible hands. The feminine aroma of jasmine fills the warm air; the grey smoke ascends around the room in helixes, only to fade in drafts of air. A rectangular table made from granite is placed in the centre of the room, and upon the table is a silver tray of freshly cut fruits and a rose-scented water bowl. Both have been left untouched by the bride.

Marie Amitri's stomach violently lurches with each thought and movement. She paces several lengths of the room, the train of her dress following her as a young child would follow its mother. Wringing her hands, she plays nervously with her white-gold rings and bracelet. She dismissed her two aides less than thirty minutes ago; she doesn't want to answer their inane questions.

Marie's wedding gown is a gift from her mother, and is something new. It's sparkling white with crystals in a pattern that fades as it descends toward the hem. No straps cross her delicate shoulders, and the fabric is close-fitting, hugging her curves and accentuating her breasts. Dark lines of cleavage shadow beneath the soft fabric, and Marie yanks the dress up at her chest. The gown flares out past her knees, but her footsteps are still small, deliberate in her glass heels.

The bride's hair dark hair was elegantly styled by Olivia Greingrass into tight curls that bob just past her ears. Olivia, who has been known around the castle as the make-up artist and consultant, also painted her face with crushed blueberries and strawberries, and rather more mascara than Marie fancied. In her ears, Marie wears diamond-topaz earrings--something old.

****

Where there is hatred let me sow love.  
Where there is injury—pardon.  
Where there is doubt—faith.  
Where there is despair—hope.  
Where there is darkness—light.  
And where there is sadness—joy.

At the same moment as Marie listlessly picks at the fruits, selecting a piece of a kiwi, Rae Landon bursts through the iron grill-styled sugar pine doors. Marie doesn't look up; she chews the kiwi in slow silence, keeping Rae waiting.

"Why would you make me a bridesmaid?" demands a frustrated Rae.

"Because I don't like you," Marie replies simply. She smirks, cocking her head.

The bridesmaid dresses are the greenest green, and horrendous, rose-shaped bows are sewn onto the right lapel. The sleeves of the monstrosities are semi-transparent and resemble large, reptilian scales. As the beautiful wedding dress, it flows out at the knees, but this has too many frills for anyone's tastes.

"Is there a reason you disgrace me with your presence?" Marie inquires coolly.

Rae tugs at the itchy dress, which could be of a lower cut for her tastes. Her hair is pulled tightly back with an unsightly green clip, a style not very becoming for the Slytherin, and Olivia did her make-up to match the bride's. "Unfortunately I'm here on . . . business, ordered by Malfoy," she amends, her voice softening as she stares at Marie's gown with baffled blue eyes. "You're in white." Everyone knows that brides wear white to show their purity, and Rae doesn't consider Marie to be pure. "Are you trying to match with every other kitchen appliance?"

Marie scowls, her dark eyes narrowing to mascara-caked slits. "And what colour would your dress be if you ever married? Charcoal black? Obsidian, maybe? I've only slept with one man this half-decade, but how many have you taken between your sheets? I doubt you can count that high."

Now it's Rae's turn to glare, but she chooses not to retort. The less time she's in Marie's presence, the better for the disgruntled bridesmaid. "I didn't come to argue." She dismisses Marie snappily. Turning her palm out, she tosses Marie a flat box wrapped in silver foil and topped with a tactless bow. It's an act that seems to pain her, and she cringes, the green dress rustling.

"What's this?" Marie warily takes the offering, removes the bow and drops it to the carpeted floor. Lifting the top, she withdraws an old pendant suspended on a silver chain. It is silver, shaped like a raven with his wings extended, ready to take flight, and is encrusted with sapphires and obsidian.

"Something old and something borrowed. It's been in Adrian's family for generations, he gave it to me a few Yuletides ago. I'm lending it to you for your wedding day, by order of Malfoy," Rae replies boorishly, preoccupied with the room. She doesn't want to be here. She sees no reason to lend something to the bride. She sees no reason to be a bridesmaid. This is a strange and unusual form of punishment.

"You don't have to do this." Marie shoves the box back towards Rae.

Rae frowns, and forces the words from her mouth, as one would carry pain with honour and without word. "Yes. I do. You couldn't get married otherwise. Isn't it tradition? You must have something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue," she says, reciting the traditional rhyme with a flippant hand gesture. "Besides, Malfoy is making me."

Marie forces a weak smile. "Yes. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank Malfoy."

Such simple words in the brief exchange, but they are a tremendous pain to be spoken between those who have no need or fancy for each other.

Rae clears her throat. "Don't think anything has changed between us. I still loathe you." She spins on her green high heels, her footsteps sounding out the chamber. Halfway through the door with her hand on the iron handle, she hears Marie's voice.

"And I, you."

Marie watches Rae depart, and listens to her rhythmic footfalls ricochet down the corridors till they disappear in the distance. Turning back to the full-length mirror, she grabs for some tissues. Stuffing some inside of her strapless bra, she uses the others to dab sweat from her armpits before applying another layer of anti-perspirant.

Marie sighs as ghosts from the past drift by her.

****

O divine master grant that I may  
not so much seek to be consoled as to console;  
to be understood as to understand;  
to be loved as to love.  
For it is in giving that we receive--  
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned.  
And it's in dying that we are born into eternal life.

When Marie was younger, she didn't have any friends. The children on her street didn't like her; and that suited Marie fine. She never fancied them, either.

At Hogwarts, it'll be different, Marie thought. There, fat children will bow to me.

But "children" turned out to be a lonely child. It was in her second year that Marie convinced some skinny Hufflepuff who mispronounced her name that she was the daughter of some long-forgotten Egyptian Goddess. Of course, this Justin bowed before her and followed her around for the many weeks to come. But less than three months after her new-found godhood, her bubble burst when Justin realised that Gods aren't human, Gods don't bleed. And right when Marie pricked her finger while cutting herbs in Herbology, her world fell apart. She then decided that being bowed down to was no longer in her tastes, and being a child, she forgot the affair the next day.

Marie was by far the most important aspect of Jerrell Amitri's life, and was up until the day he left this earth. The death of Marie's father was something that she never understood. In cartoons, people always came back after death. The coyote always had one more trick up his sleeve after falling off the side of a cliff; the cat was never really killed by the bulldog, he always came back to get that tweety bird. So, a sixteen-year-old Marie waited at her father's grave, and cried when she realised that he was never coming back.

Cartoons lie.

She then felt the heat of anger and betrayal come over her, and she didn't care that she was the new whore to a contented Malfoy after the untimely death of his wife. Narcissa was an untouchable beauty, and Marie never understood why Lucius, a man named after the devil-figure, wanted her.

She can remember vividly the first time she set her eyes on Lucius. It was during a trip to Knockturn Alley with her father. They were in some shop that she cannot remember the name of, and she was ordered not to touch anything. This didn't come at a surprise, so Marie kept her hands clasped in front of her Ravenclaw robes and ravished the merchandise with her eyes.

Lucius and Jerrell were never on speaking terms, for if truth were told, they detested each other with an unspoken passion. Upon meeting Marie, Lucius was suspiciously over-pleasant that day, and Draco was as unpleasant as usual. Marie remembers everything that Draco ever said to her. "Don't expect me to call you mother," were Draco's only words to his father's new mistress, and he sniffed haughtily at her.

The night after she left Hogwarts, Marie moved into the Malfoy Manor and was surprised that the horrors she heard about weren't true. Skeletons didn't litter every corner, and spiders weren't as larger as one's fist. The walls neither bled, nor were adorned with devices of medieval torture. In fact, the Malfoy Manor was filled with nothing but the best. Expensive furniture and exquisite paintings provided each chamber with a feeling of stature. The manor didn't use electricity; instead, thousands of candles lined the walls, imparting a soft, warm light in the castle. Velvet curtains of all colours covered the bay windows, and beautiful flowers grew in the gardens. When Marie was first brought into the manor, she thought she was a prisoner, but she was soon to learn that Lucius provided her with everything she could ever want--the finest jewelry, food from all the corners of the world, and the privacy of her own wing of the house. Of course, Lucius expected certain things in return for his generosity.

The Malfoy's house elves quickly became enamoured with her. People in the alleys bowed to her when she walked with Lucius. The Death Eaters now bowed to her as well, some of her aides went as far as calling her "Your Majesty."

So, she is a goddess after all.

This was what her father wanted her to have.

And in trying to save her, he actually set her free.

A small smile plays across Marie's crimson lips when she realises this and realises that maybe now everything will be all right. Her son will have a father, he will have aides who will wait on him at all times, he will have more than Marie could have ever given him if she didn't marry Lucius. The gods dealt her a lousy hand, but after a few turns she came out on top, her hopes achieved.

With her back to the mirror, she begins to recite the vows, which were co-written by Blaise Zabini-Finnigan and Pansy Parkinson, for the last time before the ceremony.

"Now most things are larger than  
the promise of a woman and a man,  
but you and I, through burning plains,  
through darkness of the earth,  
affirm this world, its people,  
the heavens that gave them birth,  
the breath that passes between us,  
this alter that we stand,  
all these things were made larger by  
the promise of a woman to a man."

Marie's quite fond of the vows but chuckles to herself after rehearsing them. They are merely a ploy, a performance for the guests. For if they had written real vows, their own vows, they would not have been as beautiful as those.

A rapping on the door brings Marie back to reality, and Blaise pokes her head in, sapphire eyes emphasised by her long blue-black hair. "Miss? The High Priest is waiting, and the music has started."

****

Amen.

Lucius Malfoy and Marie Amitri are married three weeks after the last snowfall.

* * *

**additional disclaimers**: The first poem featured here is an old wiccan death poem. Its author is unknown. The second is the Prayer of St Francis. The vows are a shorter version of Goldmoon and Riverwind's wedding vows from the _DragonLance _Chronicles. I take ownership over none of the above.__


	25. Chapter Twenty Five : Family Affairs

****

Chapter Twenty-Five : Family Affairs

The last time Aileen Landon (more commonly known as Aileen Alaren) set her eyes on her daughter, Rae was leaving Hogwarts. While some students received a new broom, or a set of art supplies, or a series of books as gifts from their proud parents, Aileen gave Rae a terrible headache.

But that was seven years ago, and is another story.

When Aileen observes her daughter in that hideous green bridesmaid gown, she smirks in playful amusement, tasting her daughter's embarrassment. But that smirk wanes into a malicious sneer when Aileen notices Adrian Pucey run his hand along Rae's arm, pulling her into a kiss. It's only after the tedious wedding ceremony that Aileen takes her daughter aside someplace private to talk with her.

"It was a lovely ceremony, was it not?" Aileen asks, making idle chitchat as they walk the through corridors, deeper into the cool dungeons of the castle. With Rae freshly changed into an old green robe, she removes the clip from her hair, shaking it loose. "Marie's a lucky woman to have Lucius; I hope she realises that."

Rae glances at her mum and carelessly shrugs, not really caring.

"And I hope you know how lucky _you _are, daughter," Aileen continues, regarding Rae in a self-aggrandizing way. "Marcus Flint is quite the young man. If you can handle his temper, that is. But"--she reaches out with a pale hand to tilt Rae's head to the side--"I see no bruises, so I'm sure you're able to manage." She fakes a warm smile and turns away.

Rae shudders inwardly at her mother's unnaturally cold hands, but she remains silent. They've played this game countless times. And although it may have taken a while, Rae has learnt not to invoke Aileen's anger. She casts her eyes down towards the black and red spiders scuttling across the dust-covered floors and into the cracks of the walls.

Aileen chuckles. "Oh come now, Rae. Surely you can speak with your mother?"

Rae glances up for the first time at the mother she's grown to despise. Aileen wore her dark hair in curls for the occasion, and they have now lost their verve, resting on thin shoulders. Her eyes change as often as her moods, and today they are a soft hazel colour. Her complexion is wan; it's rumoured that she's allergic to the sun, but that's all they are--rumours. Aileen's cheekbones are high and her frame slim; any man who set his eyes on her would think she's attractive, but there's always someone around the corner who is prettier than she. And it was usually Rae around the corner.

"I don't love Marcus, Mother."

"I know you don't, and though I should care, I don't," Aileen replies as a real smile creeps over her crimson lips. They pass a set of locked steel doors leading to the chambers that Penelope Clearwater hasn't set foot into for six months. "Remember, our families have an agreement. There are things in life you must take with your head held high, otherwise you will trip and fall. I may not be fond of quite a few things in life, but I am fond of you. You are my only daughter, after all."

"The only one that you admit to," Rae mutters beneath her breath.

"What was that? You shouldn't mumble, it's not very becoming."  
  
Rae snorts and rolls her eyes. There weren't many instances in Rae's life where Aileen showed emotion or taught her life's lessons; her father was always the one to bathe her in love's soft glow and spend time with her without it seeming a chore. "What would daddy think if he knew about Flint? Do you disgrace his memory by not honouring him?"  
  
Aileen raises her thin eyebrows in pleasant surprise and looks down at her daughter. "Who has been teaching you such strong words?" she asks in astonishment, resetting her gaze forward. "Your father would think what I told him to think, and that was the best thing about him. Jamie was such a spineless prat, though it did come in handy in a few cases."

They silently pass Blaise and Seamus Finnigan, a polite nod being the only exchange between them. Blaise holds in her arms a small child with crow-black hair, and they wait until the family's footfalls die till continuing their conversation.  
  
"You never loved dad, did you?"  
  
Aileen pauses before answering to place her hand on Rae's shoulders in an odd and false act of affection. "See, daughter? We do have something in common; we both hate the men in our lives. And--oh, I almost forgot--we both hurt the ones we truly love."

Rae furrows her eyebrows and halts immediately, stalling unknowingly near Marcus's chambers. "What do you mean? There is no one I love, and even if there were, I most certainly wouldn't hurt him. I'm not you." It sounds as though she is trying to convince herself the most.  
  
An incredulous chuckle passes Aileen's lips, and Rae cringes. "You are with Pucey, are you not?" Rae opens her mouth to deny that fact, but Aileen quickly continues, dismissing Rae's unspoken testimony. "There's no need to contradict me, I saw him kissing you and--"

"We're just friends," Rae interjects.

"Oh, trust me. _ Friends_ don't kiss as he was kissing you. I'm surprised that Marcus hasn't caught you two yet; it is none of my business, though, so I will not ask. But you see it, don't you, daughter? You're hurting Adrian inadvertently; you should see the mooneyes he gives you when you're around. It's pathetic, and it reminds me of Jamie. You're right; I never loved your father. He was convenient, and then the inconvenience came along. That would be you, Rae. I have loved, however; I'm not a monster. A striking man by the name of Cayne Corbett. He was murdered by my wand." She speaks the last sentence with a careless air and a dismissive hand gesture.

To say Rae is appalled would be to say the least. Swallowing the sick feeling driving its way through her stomach to her throat, she visibly pales. "You loved him and killed him? How could you do such a thing!?" Rae demands, pressing her hand to her mother's forearm, searching her eyes for sensible reasons for this dreadful act.

Aileen brushes her daughter's hand from her arm and continues walking. Rae follows at her heels. "April Pucey loved him as well, and he returned her feelings. His best friend, Seth, fell in love with her twin Willow, and they were inseparable after their sixth year. You see, April and Willow were my dorm mates and also friends, but I never fit in with them after that. They disgraced themselves by associating with Ravenclaws. Love knows no bounds, it's said, but that's not true. Love does know one bound, and that is the house you are sorted into." Aileen tells her tale with a monotonous voice, as though she is merely the dormant storyteller of some other person's life.

A sphere of disgust settles inside of Rae's stomach, and refuses to move.

"Don't dwell on it, child, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. Times were different when I was younger. Back then, you knew who your enemies were, but more importantly, you knew who your friends were." Aileen sighs and slouches her shoulders, glancing around the empty corridors. "It's late, daughter. I bid you farewell this day; my servant waits to take me home. Hopefully, the next time I see you, you will be wedding Flint."

"I doubt it," Rae replies dryly, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Don't doubt it, I'm sure it will happen. And you will see, it'll be for the best. The best for who, though, has yet to be determined," Aileen says, turning. Rae watches her mother leave before she ascends the staircase to retire to her bedchambers.

****

..........................................................................................................................................

The last time Aileen Alaren set her eyes on Marcus Flint, she was paying him off to marry her daughter. That was seven years ago, and the arrangement between Aileen and Marcus's father, Ares Flint, still stands.

It was during Marcus's eighth year at Hogwarts when he turned his fancy to his mate's bird. Naturally, Aileen was never fond of her daughter's feelings for Adrian Pucey, but only for the animosity that was created between Aileen, April, and Cayne so many years ago. She still felt the need to hurt Cayne, and she exacted her psychotic vengeance on his only heir.

Subsequently, Aileen was more than elated when she heard about Marcus's lust for her daughter, and decided to act upon it immediately. She sent an owl to Ares, and Marcus sent the screech owl back to Aileen. The families met at Yuletide of 1993, and Marcus jammed himself between Rae and Adrian's relationship. Marcus never wanted to marry Rae, but that was the agreement. Marcus would take Rae from Adrian, and Aileen offered a dowry for his trouble in return. Though Marcus doesn't understand love and never will, he grew to "love" her according to his own terms.

"Do you really hate your daughter this much?" Marcus asks Aileen as he offers her a mug of fire whisky he poured from a now-empty bottle. She had knocked on his chamber door minutes before, right when he was stepping from the showers, preparing to dress for honour guard duty. When guarding the Malfoys, one cannot be late if one favours keeping one's balls.

Aileen takes the copper mug with a thank you. "It's not her I hate, Marcus. It's not her I want to hurt. But in every war there are casualties, and I cannot mourn over her unhappiness." Her eyes skim the chamber, awed by the lack of warm decorations. Marcus's chambers are empty as though he doesn't live here, but that's the way he likes it. "You love her, do you not?"

Marcus takes a seat adjacent from Aileen. "Yes, but--"

"Then I see no reason for you to care. Remember the agreement, Marcus? Nothing has changed since '93, and I expect you to honour our bargain," Aileen interrupts, holding the mug with both hands and taking a sip.

Marcus glares. "I will honour the contract for as long as I want her," he grunts.

Aileen chuckles, and places her snifter to the dungeon floor, a safe distance from the smouldering coals in the fire pit. "Don't you know anything? You will always want her."

"Then I will always honour the contract," Marcus snaps.

A satisfied smile passes Aileen's lips. "That's nothing more than I expect."

Marcus's eyes blaze murderously, and he gruffly stands, kicking his chair out. "If this is all, _Miss _Alaren, I'm supposed to be on guard duty," he fumes, grabbing for his cloak. He wears new black robes, soft yet heavy with silver stitching, plus a new emblem across the left lapel. The emblem is of a green dragon with huge jaws, snapping at an invisible foe, and his surname is embroidered in cursive.

"I understand. I will only take a moment of your time. I didn't lie when I told my daughter my servant waits. Now, it is no secret among us that your grandfather was a troll, is it not?" Aileen starts, regarding Marcus with a condescending expression. She calmly takes another sip of her fire whisky. "Olaf, I believe. Head of his clan."

Marcus glances away, preoccupied with fastening his thick grey cloak to his robes, fumbling due to his missing index finger on his right hand. "Yes," he grudgingly replies, gritting his teeth and avoiding the desire to speak to Aileen with bitter antipathy.

"I understand you have one-fourth troll blood drifting through your veins. But do you really comprehend the significance of your heritage?" Aileen leans back, detaching herself from this conversation as she did earlier with her daughter. Detachment is what she does best, after all.

Marcus raises his thick eyebrows in a questioning slant. Grabbing for his mug of fire whisky, an aged mixture stronger than the one Aileen drinks, he downs it in half a swig. "Father never mentioned anything."

"Of course not. Your father would have been better as a dwarf. He's more loused than any drunkard I've had the pleasure of encountering. I will tell you this, Marcus: I don't expect any grandchildren," Aileen replies airily.

Marcus stops, his pupil dilating in confusion.

A frustrated sigh escapes Aileen's lips, and she shakes her head, mostly at Marcus's stupidity. "You are a quarter breed, Marcus. There can be no little Marcuses running around; no eighth-breeds. It's impossible."

Marcus continues his blank stare.

"You're sterile," Aileen explains bluntly. "You can never have an heir."

Disappointed that Aileen made such a case out of this, Marcus scoffs and rolls his black eyes. "You talk as if I want a fucking kid. You know as well as I do that I'm not father material. And, I doubt Rae's ready for motherhood. She'd probably forget the rank annoyance and let it die."

Aileen laughs pleasantly. "I should have expected as much."

"Do you wish me to tell Rae this?"

Aileen pauses, but only to finish her drink, blushing violently at the searing sensation running down her throat. "No. What she doesn't know won't kill her. Besides, it'll be in your best interests to leave her in the dark on this."

.........................................................................................................................................

"So . . . _this _is the Last Alliance?" Lucius Malfoy gapes at the folder passed to him by Tahirah Nefertari in a stunned, thunderstruck silence. Leaning forward in his seat, he studies the comments jotted with a lazy hand, while Tahirah indolently examines the world maps pinned to the off-white bulletin board of his office.

_ ****_

Sirius Leviticus Black: Age, forty-one. Ex-convict, convicted of murdering James and Lily Potter. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Escaped from Azkaban in 1993, and remained unseen until the summer of 1998 when he fought alongside Remus Lupin and Harry Potter. Excels in Transfiguration and Charms, and is an Animagi. Frailties lie in Muggle affairs.

Fleur Lavelle Delacour: Age, twenty-five. Witch with veela blood. Graduated from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in 1995 and moved to Britain to be with lover Roger Davies. Was supposedly killed in the Last Battle. Also goes by Fleur Davies, or Flower. Abilities lie mostly in Charms and Herbology, but she nearly failed Transfiguration.

Igor Ivan Karkaroff: Age, forty-three. Ex-Death Eater. Graduated in 1976 from Durmstrang Institute of Magical Learning located in Northern Europe. Became the Headmaster at the institute, but disappeared shortly after Death Eaters were triumphant in Britain. Knowledgeable about the Dart Arts.

****

Remus Joshua Lupin: Age, forty-one. Werewolf. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Stationed for one school year at Hogwarts as Professor in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Escaped alongside Sirius Black after the Last Battle. Excels in defences against the Dark Arts, but is lacking with Potions.

Severus Thanatos Snape: Age, forty-one. Ex-Death Eater. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Slytherin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Stationed at Hogwarts as Master of Potions for over ten years, departed during the fall of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort. Specialises in Potions, the Dark Arts, and defences of the Dart Arts, but his weakness lies in Divination.

Lucius's eyes scan the paper, dubious of these unlikely allies and heroes. "Which one is the leader?" he asks Tahirah, who is moving a green marker in the North of Britain to the South, and a red from the West to North. "Don't touch my maps!"

Tahirah shrugs and turns to Lucius. "He never offered a name, and I never asked. I can tell you this though--he's a scrawny little boy. Too smug for his own good." She steps carefully onto the red Persian carpet, running her finger along the radiator, inspecting the dust on her fingers with displeasure.

Lucius closes the folder, and taking a brass key, he unlocks the bottom drawer on his desk. Placing the information inside, beneath some other parchments, he locks it, and conceals the key in one of the many pockets on his robes. "What about the Ministers? What do they know?"

"Only what I tell them. I trust they won't be acting without the International Ministry's authorization. Some did wish to help the Last Alliance, but even they realise that they are unfounded in their actions. I've managed to keep those countries under control. Never underestimate the power of lies, Lucius," Tahirah replies, winking.

Lucius nods, pleased with her report. "I want you to discover the identity of this alliance's leader, in addition to determining what they are planning. Is it just camps they wish to liberate, form an army? Or is this just the first small step up the golden staircase of their schemes?"

"I'm not one of your Death Eaters," Tahirah snaps testily. Her dark, Egyptian-painted eyes narrow. "Get someone else to do your grunt work." She flips her black hair over her shoulders, crossing her arms below her breasts.

Lucius's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. With a deep breath, he stares at his new mother-in-law till she shifts uncomfortably as though being poked by pins and growls, her lip curling in annoyance.

Lucius leans back, and smiles as though to say, "we can stay here all day if you wish." His eyes burrow into her, and Tahirah's level of comfort falls drastically beneath his gaze. Her skin begins to crawl and itch, and she wonders if that's his doing. Where does he get off ordering her around?

"I'm royalty, lick my boot!" She grinds out the words between clenched teeth.

"I'm king, kiss my arse," Lucius levels, mildly amused with this exchange.

Tahirah glares, her eyes raking the room uncomfortably. "Fine." She caves after more uneasy flashes of the stare-game. "I will do as you ask, but I expect to be highly compensated for my trouble. Now, if you don't mind, I wish to take my leave to see my grandson."

..........................................................................................................................................

__

He walks alone; the sun beats down on him from the centre of the sky like a whip across the bloody back of a slave. Unexplained mountains appear across the horizon, and the ancient castle of Hogwarts in the distance. Below his sandaled feet is an ocean of endless sand that stretches to the five corners of the Earth. Surrounding him is a vast forest of tombstones. New, freshly dug graves, and undamaged monuments. He ambles slowly through the graveyard rooted in the centre of the desert, gazing at the engravings on the headstones. Names such as Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Fleur Delacour, and Igor Karkaroff are carved deep into the granite.

He stops and falls heavily to his knees, sinking into the flowing sand. These people are his allies, his new friends. They are at home in Marseilles, safe. Unharmed from battle. Confusion sweeps over him as a cold breeze, and he reaches out to place his hand upon Karkaroff's grave. It melts beneath his warm hands, and he leaps to his feet in amazement, fear, and maybe a little bit of shock.

Drawing his eyes across the horizon, more tombstones blossom from the sand and into view. All new, none old. Red and white Lilies grow at their bases, choking the life from the headstones that they grow around. Stepping towards a small cluster of graves, the names strike lightning in his bleeding heart. Seamus Finnigan. Neville Longbottom. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley. Terry Boot. Blaise Zabini.

Those people were once his friends. Now they are either dead or imprisoned, or what he's fighting against. They are why he is fighting; they are why he hasn't yet fallen. Dropping to his knees before the gravestones, he watches with no surprise or emotion as blood haemorrhages from the etchings. Slowly at first as though a vein was sliced. But soon the blood is pouring in rivulets down the granite, soaking into the sun-bleached sand and disappearing. He stands after a few passing moments to leave, leaving behind those people, those memories. That life.

Walking from the graveyard, it dies behind him, joining the sand it once was.

The wizard bends down to remove his sandals and lets his feet worm into the sand, the grains sticking in between his toes. It feels nice, cool, and he falls to his knees, cupping handfuls of the sand and lifting it to his mouth. He drinks deeply, till his hands hold no more sand. He instantly takes another handful, and rolls his head back. He lets the sand fall through his sweat-matted hair, washing over him as though it was sparkling water. Sputtering bits of red pebble from his mouth, he begins to dig.

Above him, the orange sphere of fire hangs without a white cloud in the red-tinted sky, and black birds flutter. Pretty birds all in a row they are, with black beaks and black claws. Twenty-eight for total, their eyes gouged out by their own talons, they fly with white blindfolds.

Rearing his head up, he scrambles to his feet.

****

One crow a sorrow

Two crows a mirth

Three crows a wedding

Four crows a birth

Five crows silver

Six crows gold

Seven crows a secret

Which must never be told . . .

The song seems to come from the birds themselves, and they circle around the sun. Shielding his eyes from the light and running his tongue over his cracked bottom lip, the wizard begins to mouth the song, his words starting in a silent whisper. But it's not his voice that gets louder; rather, the world around him seems to become softer, until all he can hear is the eerie chant from the twenty-eight black crows.

He watches as the birds disappear, but it's not them who fly from the sky, it's the sky that seems to run from them. The sand dunes roll away, and the black-haired youth is taken back to the hole in the sand. Kneeling before it, he continues to brush the small pebbles in an attempt to make it larger, but he fails as the sand runs together again. Plunging his hand into the hole, the sand stitches together as a wound quickly healing, and he searches for something he neither sees nor recognises. He doesn't know what lies beneath the sand other than a sea of blood.

A shadow approaches from behind, or maybe he backs into the shadow. Growing over the grounded wizard, he can make out the curves of a woman, and a strong wind picks up, whipping his hair and robes to the right, towards the dunes that were once there.

"Who are you?" the wizard asks, turning and climbing to his feet. Her sudden appearance doesn't startle him; a part of him expected it, expected her.

The woman's eyes are black, and no reflection shines in them. They seem to laugh and cry at the same time, seem to know everything and yet nothing. She smiles and frowns, and her face is neither old nor young. She wears all colours, yet she stands naked before the blushing young man. Her hair is radiating white, flowing to her waist, and upon her head she wears a silver crown.

"Relax, my son. I am not here to hurt, but to impart wisdom.

"You have your army now, but where are the descendants? Two are in your possession, true, but your circle won't be complete until the other two have joined your battle. Do you know where to search? Do you even know where to start, my son? Gryffindor was your housemate, but you look too hard. He's right before your eyes, but you don't see him. No one ever saw him, and he's now alone in this world. Innocent still, war never tainted him. It never will. And that will be your advantage, for one of your heirs is tainted by death. He reeks of it, I can smell it from here, and it sickens me. But you, you are a human; you won't be able to smell it. He is ruled by the raven, by emotions. The heir of Gryffindor is ruled by the griffin, by purity." She speaks, but her mouth doesn't move. The words flow from her mind to his, singing and echoing across the abnormal land.

"Death walks with the heir of Ravenclaw? If that is true, how can he be of use to us?" the wizard asks, averting his eyes from the beautiful, nude woman. But no matter which way he turns, she's right before him.

The woman smiles and lifts the wizard's chin with her soft, gentle hand. "He will be more of an asset because of his experiences. Trust him. What he will do, he will do out of love of a woman, his goddess and lover. There is nothing stronger than the bond of love, my son. Never forget that," she whispers as a tear rolls down her cheek, from her eyes, which are now green. She cradles his head in her hands, an act that she wishes she couldn't only do in dreams.

He places his hand over hers, and lets his eyes drift shut. This woman is indescribable; she stirs so many emotions inside of him. Love, anger, pain, sorrow, fear, joy; and he cries. He lets the tears fall without knowing why, but as they soak into the sand of the desert, a strange warmth washes over him, and for the first time in so many years, everything just melts away. He's no longer the heir of the most powerful wizard to walk the earth; he's no longer the leader of an alliance. He's just a boy, standing before The Mother, being loved unconditionally.

"I'm scared," he whispers, his mouth sorely dry. "People expect so much of me, and I've failed in the past. I've let everyone down, and I still was thrust into this role of a leader before I even knew what a leader was. I was in battle before I learnt my first spell. I'm fighting a fight that will ultimately lead to my demise. And why? Because of a few friends who may have been better off without me? Because of a country that wouldn't thank me? How do I even know I'm making the best decisions if they all end in death?"

The woman embraces the young man, holding him tight and running her hands through his hair. She brushes his fringe from his eyes, pressing her lips to his forehead before pulling them away after several long moments. "The world has landed itself on your shoulder, my dear boy. And I cannot begin to express my sorrow, my hurt. When you leave this world, the Summerland awaits you, and all you have ever loved will be there, all lessons will become clear. You will leave this world with the world at your feet, instead of on your shoulders. And the only way to do that is to gather the last two heirs as quickly as you can, and jump into action. For, once you have the four heirs, the path you walk is still dark and twisted. It will take much preparation for the spell to be cast, and it will be up to you and your alliance, my son."

"But we don't even know where to begin!" he cries into her radiating hair.

The woman frowns, the world sheds powerful tears. "I can grant you one name, and one name only, for it is out of my power. Mystical forces I cannot penetrate surround the heir of Ravenclaw. I know his identity, but I know not his name. I do know, however, the name of the heir of Gryffindor. Longbottom, my son. And he is ready. The hidden power has been awakened, and he soared in the sky, a brilliant light cutting through darkness."

The commander of the Last Alliance wakes up in his bed in Romania, in Hagrid's hut, shaking hysterically. He has a handful of sand clenched in his fists, the warm feeling quickly dissipates. "Neville," he whispers through tears.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six : Beta

****

Losing Faith

Chapter Twenty-Six : Beta

(or, The Running Joke of Speeches)

(or, The Fine Art of Being Slytherin)

The library in the Delacour Manor is an exquisite chamber to behold when darkness falls. Moonlight softly drifts in through every crystal window and rests gently upon the thousands of scriptures and the hardwood floors. A circular table constructed from oak is placed in the centre of the library, three of the four walls surrounding it are bookshelves, and the fourth is the double mahogany doors. Upon the table are three short stacks of night-bound books, several unrolled scrolls, and a large map of the United Kingdom and surrounding area. The map is kept in place by the sword Excalibur and Merlin's Book of Shadows. Scattered across the map are coloured pins--red where Camp Phi used to be, orange where Hogwarts stands, yellow at London, and green at Peterborough.

"Neville Longbottom is being held prisoner at Camp Beta in Peterborough. That's approximately eighty miles North from London and, coincidentally, his hometown. Beta is a large camp, one of the largest next to Alpha, and the guards have been extended to include Dementors. So I've decided that we're not going to attack Beta in hopes of liberating Neville as we did to Lockhart--"

Severus Snape quickly looks up. "What?" he demands in such a tone that his comrades gape at him in disbelief. Quietly clearing his throat, he turns a cold eye upon each of them, but doesn't let his gaze waver from his superior.

The commander of the Last Alliance fixes Severus in a glacial glare. "You never let me finish, Snape. We're not liberating Beta and jeopardising hundred of lives when we don't have to," he continues. "We have two capable Animagi with us who can sneak into Beta undetected."

"Where is the honour in that?" Severus spats. "There is nothing honourable about slipping inside of a stronghold with your tail between your legs." He crosses his arms, ignoring the threatening glare being given to him from Sirius Black. Beside him, Igor Karkaroff places a yielding hand on his forearm, but Severus jerks his arm away, scowling at the white-haired wizard.

"What good is your honour if you're dead? What good would it do anyone? Some misty-eyed people might sing your praise over a mug of beer, but do you know who won't be singing? Those people in Britain. Our friends. They won't be singing of your heroic deeds. They have to fight just to stay alive, so if you're dead, who will protect them? No one here will die heroically in battle next week. We won't be singing each other's death songs."

Solemn looks drift over faces, and they cast their eyes down, thoughts wandering over to friends or lovers who might be captive. Karkaroff nods slowly in agreement, and Severus shifts in his seat. The words may not have affected him on the outside, but they did on the inside. Sirius glances around, noticing that morale has taken a nose-dive. He begins applauding, slowly at first, but it quickens rapidly. "Encore! Encore!" he shouts out as Remus snickers beside him, and Severus kicks him underneath the table.

"Oww . . ." Sirius mutters, rubbing his calf.

"Sirius and Remus will Apparate to the Northern boarder of Belgium," the commander continues as he places a blue thumbtack on the coastline. "There, Hagrid will be waiting with a Romanian Longhorn, and he will fly you across the North Sea. Once there"--he stabs an indigo tack on the shoreline of Britain--"you will Change, follow the river till you reach London"--he taps the yellow tack--"and then head North towards Peterborough. You will find Camp Beta on the southern border." He shoves a violet tack below the green one. "I want you to carry the elf's amulet."

Simultaneously, Remus and Sirius stare at each other. "You will carry it!" they shout out in unison, pointing an index finger at the other. "No, I won't! You will! Like hell!" Creepily, in harmony again. They burst into laughter much like little children, the little children they once were.

A tide of joy washes over the wizard at the bond that was created long ago between Sirius and Remus, but it quickly fades into grief as he remembers the sight of their tombstones in the dream that came to him two weeks ago. "Don't make me get into my speech about honour," he threatens jokingly with a slight smile and sparking eyes. "Remus will wear it. They're more likely to kill a werewolf than a large black dog. I don't know where Neville's living quarters are, but do not split up to search for him. When you find him, make sure no one--and I mean no one!--follows you. You must convince him to Change."

A look of uneasy puzzlement casts itself over Karkaroff's face. "Change?"

With a deep sigh, the commander explains. "Godric Gryffindor gave his son one gift--the ability to polymorph into a griffin. I thought we'd discussed this," he drones.

"We have, sir," he simply replies with a polite nod as an apology.

"Don't let it slip again. Now, Sirius and Remus will leave Sunday night, and I don't expect your return for at least a week. Remus, will you be able to Change and stay in form for that long? I know you prefer to Change during the full moons, when your power is at its highest, but we can't wait until then."

Remus's yellow eyes drift to the quarter moon outside the highest window in the library. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply as though he is inhaling the moon itself. "I believe I will be able to."

"I need to know for certain, Remus," the commanding wizard emphasises strongly. "There is a lot running on this campaign, and we cannot afford errors."

Remus nods, clearing his throat to speak with confidence. "I _will _Change."

"Nothing less than I expect. Any questions?"

Severus's umber eyes are haunted by inner anxiety, and he drums his fingers on the table and speaks quickly with a voice filled with tension. "I want you to send me on this mission, as well."

Merlin's heir shakes his head. "That's impossible, Snape."

Severus fixes his superior in an intense gaze. "No, it's not. There's something I haven't told you--"

"If it's you being the heir of Balthasar, Jasper told us," Sirius interjects brusquely.

"There's more to it than that, Black," Severus snaps. "Two sons were born to Ouranos Slytherin--Salazar and Balthasar. Ouranos bestowed his sons with two gifts--the ability to talk to snakes and the ability to polymorph into a snake. Salazar received the Parseltongue, and Balthasar the Animagi gene."

Sirius's elfish eyes widen in realisation. "So you were that snake in our Commons! Bloody hell, I should have killed you when I had the chance! I had the fire poker in my hand! One jab and poof!"

"Do snakes go 'poof'?" Remus inquires.

Sirius shrugs. "I always thought so."

The leader declines immediately, but not only because Sirius and Severus might kill each other if they are alone for an extended period of time. "Sirius and Remus can easily handle this mission. Besides, there's something that I need you and Fleur to do. While Sirius and Remus are sneaking into Beta, I want you two to appear around the castle. Severus, in his Animagi form, will slither in and listen to what is being said, while Fleur makes sure she's seen. I know this is risky, and I want you to Apparate the hell out of there before they attack you. Just get their attention, and make sure they don't realise what's happening right beneath their noses. Karkaroff and I will handle the refugee as well as the identity of the heir of--"

His next words are sounded out by the double doors of the library hammering open, and in rushes a young witch with a maidservant on her heels. The witch's complexion is unnaturally blanched, and she has shark-like hazel eyes. Her hair is coarse and the colour of chestnuts, falling listlessly below her shoulders. Her cheekbones are hollow, and her face Nordic. She walks with confidence in her step although there is a faltering that can be seen in her eyes.

"What is she doing here?" the commander asks the blonde aide. "I specifically said that we are not to be disturbed. Did this slip your mind, Dubois?"

The witch runs her tongue over her lips, inwardly building courage. "I-if you have a question, you will direct it to me," she stammers, unaccustomed to speaking her mind, and even more unaccustomed to someone's reaction. "Please. S-sir," she adds as an afterthought.

He decides to humour her. "Fine, Miss Morgan. What are you doing here?"

Elizabeth Morgan starts, shocked that he listened. "I-I couldn't sleep."

"Dubois, please give Miss Morgan some chamomile tea and send her to bed, please." And for a moment, he felt as though she was a six-year-old child, and he was her over-caring father. "See if she's hungry as well."

"No, d-don't," Elizabeth speaks with much effort. "I couldn't sleep because I didn't want to sleep. I-I want to know what's going to happen to us now."

He smiles, but he has the inclination to create a sign the next time someone asks him that question so he won't waste breath replying to them. It'd be much easier to hold up a sign with the answer. "We are still treating those injured in battle. Once their injuries have completely healed and they are well enough to travel, they will be escorted to a safe-haven. Hagrid and the giants in Romania have agreed to house many, and Karkaroff is kind enough to lend us the use of his manor in Iceland. Those who are capable warriors have the choice of staying here."

"I want to stay here," Elizabeth says quickly.

"That's out of the question."

"I want to avenge her death."

"Whose death?"

"Cho's. They killed her."

A fleeting moment of silence, and the commander inwardly winces. "We don't have time for vendettas, Miss Morgan. Everyone has had deaths affect them; it's a fact of life. I've had friends die, I've watched friends die, and I've had to kill friends because they were Death Eaters. I'm not doing this because Voldemort and the Death Eaters killed the people closest to me; I'm not that selfish. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Now saunter off back to bed, and leave the wars to be fought by those who have reasons to fight them." Around him, his comrades nod in agreement, but remain quiet at the memory of the events that unravelled at Phi.

"How can you be so insensitive? What happened to the boy I knew at Hogwarts?" asks Elizabeth, outraged and only showing it slightly on the outside. Her face flushes, and she vividly hears her heart thumping in her chest. She crosses her arms over her grey-robed chest, wondering if they can hear her nervousness.

"He died," is the simple reply.

The twenty-one year old Gryffindor swallows and uncrosses her arms. "I want to do what's right, too," she states. "They've killed everyone I've ever cared about. All I've seen these past three years is death and decay, and just when you give us hope, we have to sit around while other people die?"

"You are not cut out for war," the commander tells her dryly, glancing her over. He knew her briefly while at Hogwarts; she was a year older than him. She never played Quidditch, and she never participated in the after-hours debates arranged by Professor McGonagall because she didn't like arguing. She isn't the type to don armour and go running off into battle, if only she could see that.

Elizabeth scans the faces in the library. "Is this because I'm a woman?"

"What? No! Of course not. Listen, I'm not going to send you into war because you have a few vendettas you want to carry out. There are more important things in life," he states firmly.

"Well, what if . . ." she pauses. "I . . . How about . . . What don't . . ."

The leader chuckles. "You are out of your league, Miss Morgan."

Elizabeth's mouth drops. "I am not! All I want is to help you! Why won't you let me do that?" she shrieks, clenching her fists at her side. She throws a scorching look at the wizard, bound and determined to help in this cause. There are people who need her, friends who she might be able to save.

"Because revenge is not a good reason!" he snaps.

With her face etched in sorrow, a wounded look appears in Elizabeth's eyes. "But then what else can I do?" she chokes, her voice distant and not her own. She saw Cho die, saw that Death Eater snap her neck. She couldn't stand around and let that happen to other people.

"You can sit still."

"I won't. I won't let what happened to Cho happen to someone else."

A spasm of irritation enters the commander's voice. "What will it take to end this ridiculous act of revenge? You want to go into war with your wand blazing and avenge the deaths of all you knew? Fine. You want war, then I'll show you war. You can go on the mission into Britain with Severus and Fleur. And Merlin help us, I hope you don't bugger it up." He glares, hoping she can see her selfishness, her immaturity.

But she doesn't. "Thank you!" she cries, and hugs him tightly in gratitude.

He shoves Elizabeth off. "Sit down, Morgan! We still have business to conduct here," he orders, and she takes a seat next to Severus, who shoots millions of daggers at her with his eyes. "Each of you will be expected to pack your own supplies for this and prepare for it in any way you see fit. Elizabeth, I suggest you make peace with yourself this weekend."

"What does that mean?" she asks meekly.

"You are inexperienced in all matters of warfare. You are a child acting out some radical dreams. If this is the only way to teach you, so be it. I don't have time to teach you the use of steel, and I hope you know what you're getting yourself into."

Fleur chews her bottom lip. "Sir, maybe you should be easier on her."

He reels in astonishment. "Fleur, sending an inexperienced warrior to the battlefield is dim-witted. They might fail themselves, but more importantly might fail their comrades. I don't think I'm being too hard on her; this is a lesson that she will have to learn the hard way. Look out of the window--"

Everyone tilts their heads towards the large bay window facing the dense city. Below on the streets of Marseilles, few people walk the lantern-lit streets, and few houses have their lights on. Those that do, though, have parents who hug their children goodnight before drawing the curtains. Fathers let the dogs out, or the cats in, before killing the lights in their balconies. Lovers sleep naked in each other's arms, while others curl up before the television.

"--and tell me, what do you see?"

Everyone looks to another to reply, but no one speaks.

"People," Remus replies eventually.

He's clearly satisfied with the answer. "Exactly. People. There will be people who will depend on our success, as well. The citizens of Britain used to be like them--carefree, only worried about the small things in life. Teenagers had nightmares about their N.E.W.T.s, not if they'd live to see the light of another day. Girls found love in the boys around them, not aggressors. Mothers hugged their children with love; they didn't huddle in fear in dark corners with them. I don't want to send people to their deaths; I wish it wouldn't come to that. But it will, because every decision I make will end in death. Good people are going to die. Maybe you." He motions to the fighters in the room. "Maybe her." He turns to Elizabeth. "Probably me."

The pencil scratches against the rough paper with every curve and line. His hand moves swiftly, drawing out the form he's come to memorise in his mind's eye. He leans over the sketchpad that is filled with pencil sketches of landscapes, people, and animals, his black hair falling freely before his blue eyes. Black robes, which are unbuttoned down the torso, showing off his chiselled chest, drape off his shoulders, and a small flash of gold reflects from his right nipple.

"Are you almost done?" a young lady drones impatiently. She rests on a white chaise lounge, a sheer black sheet spread lazily over her bare thighs and hugged tightly above her breasts with slender fingers. Auburn hair is tied tightly into a bun at the top of her head, leaving a few strands flowing before her empty blue eyes. Thick black eyeliner and dark grey eye shadows are painted on her eyes, and her lips are the darkest shade of black. Her complexion is unnaturally pale, white flour was used as powder.

"No," Adrian Pucey replies, as he flinches from the breaking of silence, his pencil lead cracking and ruining a fine line. "Bloody hell, can't you sit still for more than five minutes, Rae?" Setting his pencil down, he reaches for a kneadable eraser buried in a box of miscellaneous art supplies. His robes slip from his shoulders, and he removes his arms from the sleeves, letting the garment bunch around his waist.

"Why do you insist on using Muggle art supplies?" Rae rolls her blue eyes; she's tired of posing for this portrait, it's all they've been doing all week. They live in a world filled with magic for a reason; they were given this gift to use. Besides, she can count at least a hundred and one other things that they could be doing, all of which have the same conclusion.

"Because I get more satisfaction if I use the Muggle methods. Anyone who is a wizard or a witch can draw, but it takes a special kind of person to draw the way humans were supposed to," Adrian replies, reaching for a piece of granite and an overused smudging stick to soften the lines of the shadows of the picture.

A low and mocking chuckle escapes Rae's lips. "That's gotta be the gayest thing I've ever heard," she mumbles as she sits up, much to Adrian's irritation. She swings her legs around and leans back against the chaise lounge, letting the sheet slip from her fingers as she spreads her arms on the lounge's back. She cocks her head, pressing her lips together in contemplation.

"There's just no pleasing you, is there?" Adrian jokes, flipping his sketchbook closed. He clears his throat loudly and forces his eyes away from Rae and her lack of modesty.

"So, when can I see the picture?"

"Not before your birthday."

"But that's"--Rae counts on her fingers--"three months away."

"Two months," Adrian corrects.

"Whatever." Rae wrinkles her nose, replacing her arms on the back of the lounge.

Silence. An awkward, expecting silence as Adrian places his sketchpad and pencils back into his black case, which was a gift from his mother. Very large and thin, the artist's case fits perfectly beneath his bed. Adrian's quarters, much to Rae's delight, are what some people might called cultured. Expensive paintings from famous artists such as the Muggle Van Gogh and the wizard Picasso hang from the walls. The wallpaper, what can be seen of it, is a light shade of tan, and bead curtains cover each doorway. Most of the furniture is a replica from the fifteenth century, and the ornaments that he has are cement candleholders, or stone statues of grinning gargoyles, or miniature Zen gardens from the orient.

"Listen, Adrian . . ." Rae starts, her tone nervous. She stands, quickly grabbing for the sheet that fell to the floor and wraps it around her body, keeping it in place with her left hand. Adrian glances up, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn't. Instead, she circles away from him, trying to appear preoccupied with stone statues. "There's something I need to tell you . . ." She cracks her knuckles; a knot twisting inside of her stomach urges her to keep this inside of her.

"You should know that you can tell me anything." Adrian grabs Rae's hand with his and presses his lips to it. He tastes the flour they used to pale Rae's skin and pulls away, the bitter taste now on the tip of his tongue.

Rae snaps her hand away from Adrian's touch. "I'm holding you to your words, I hope you know that," she states, licking her lips. With a deep breath, she continues. "I'm pregnant." Rae casts her eyes towards Adrian, hoping to see a pleasant reaction although he doesn't yet know the full story and circumstances.

"Sod it all, it's become baby central around here," Adrian scoffs, rolling his ice blue eyes. "Like _Village of the _bloody _Damned_. I suppose congratulations towards Marcus are in order?"

"That's some backwards troll logic," Rae replies, her voice flat and unemotional. She glances into Adrian's eyes and swallows a forming lump in her throat before adding in a small voice, "Maybe he should be congratulating you."

Adrian stares at her with a dropped jaw, visibly not liking what he's hearing. With a step away from Rae's touch and a stony expression, he glares at her. Slowly, he runs his tongue over lips. The only thoughts running through his mind are not ecstatic ones; rather, he's unable to believe that she did something as important and risky as this without consulting him.

"Adrian?" Her voice shakes.

He blinks once. "I can't believe you did that," Adrian whispers, his thoughts coming together in his mind. Irritation and nervousness boils in his veins, and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to think rationally. But fear, fear of Marcus, overpowers him, and with a sharp look at Rae, he reprimands, "You're not with me; Marcus is the one you're with. You're supposed to have his children, as much I bloody hate that. And now, he's going to be the father of _my _child. Did you stop to think that maybe I don't want that to happen? I would rather have some other woman--someone I don't even love--be the mother of my heir than have Marcus believe its his. Bloody hell, you're a selfish prat, Rae. Thinking only about yourself. You never stopped to consider the consequences. Marcus'll know that he's not the father; he may be dense, but he'll be able to tell if his offspring doesn't take after him. We don't look alike--he's one-fourth troll for Merlin's sake! He'll piece two-and-two together, and do you know what? He'll bloody draw and quarter me!"

Adrian's words cut through Rae, but instead of taking his words like a disobedient child would, she replies angrily. "I don't want Marcus to be the father of my children. I don't love him, and we don't need a little Marcuses running around, with their trollish features and trollish IQs and trollish attitudes. I could have chosen anyone; Merlin only knows that I've shagged nearly every bloke in our year--"

"Don't remind me," Adrian grumbles under his breath.

"--but I don't want just anybody. I want you."

Adrian ignores her latter statement, continuing with the thought that ran through his mind before. "Could have chosen anyone? So what stopped you from shagging Bletchley or even Montague? Or that whelp Michael? You have yet to ball my cousin; if you aim to hurt me, why don't you just shag Terence?"

Rae's mouth quirks in annoyance.

"Do you know what you are, Rae? You're a damn slag. And you're never gonna change. Has there been a bloke you haven't stripped off your clothes for? Even now you're with two people, and who knows who else you've been shagging when you're not with me or Marcus. I'm just another notch in your bedposts. Careful, or you might need new ones soon," Adrian snaps, his hurt overpowering his sense of compassion. Forget that he doesn't really mean the words; they leave his mouth before he even hears them.

"When did this become an issue on how many people I've taken to my bed?" Rae pushes past Adrian and furiously grabs for her army green robes, which are tossed chaotically across Adrian's bed. "You know everything I've done, but that never changed your feelings before."

"I've never realised how much of a bloody Slytherin you are before!"

Rae pauses, letting the sheet slip through her fingers and land on the floor around her feet. She stands before Adrian in the nude and doesn't care. "Slytherin? Where the hell have you been for the last decade or two? I was sorted into Slytherin, I'm the offspring of two Slytherin Death Eaters, and I am a Death Eater! You say Slytherin as though I should be ashamed of it! As though you are ashamed of it, and you are one, too!" she screams, her eyes sharpening as she throws her robes over her shoulders.

"Since when do you let your house determine your destiny?" Adrian's brusque voice seems to surrounds her. "You are not what your house makes you, but you use that as an excuse to be who you are."

Rae whips around to face Adrian. "And you are the one who fell in love with me. So what does that say about you?" she asks matter-of-factly.

Adrian shrugs. "I've been a fool, convincing myself that you actually cared for me when all you care about is yourself. You see, Rae, if you cared for me, as you say you do, you wouldn't disrespect me by having my child without my consent. That's called logic. You might have heard of it," he speaks, shaking inwardly. He wishes they could stop arguing; nothing good is born from conflict. Everything just came crashing down at once, and the pieces are cutting into their hearts.

"I chose you over Marcus! Over anyone else that I could have!" Rae shrieks, grabbing a stone statue of an eagle and hurling it at Adrian's head.

Adrian ducks, and the eagle crashes into the wall and into a myriad of dusty pieces. "Bloody hell, Rae! Have you cared for anyone in your entire life!?" His voice rises once again to a bellow.

Rae blinks in surprise and looks for something else to throw at Adrian's head. She doesn't find anything, much to her irritation. "I guess I don't. Because no matter what I say, nothing matters to you. I could tell you that you mean more to me than anything else, but if you don't even believe me then what's the point?"

"Go back to your boyfriend, Rae," Adrian snaps, grabbing her at the wrist and shoving her towards the door. Throwing her out on her arse, Adrian slams the door shut. And with it, his heart drops to the Earth's core.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven : Moony and Padfoot

****

Losing Faith

Chapter Twenty-Seven : Moony and Padfoot

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin Apparate to the seashore of Belgium when the sun is visible in the centre of the sky. The land is flat and barren, much like their spirits. The waters of the North Sea lap soothingly upon the shore, leaving bits of seashell and seaweed in the sand. Cool April winds burst around them, billowing their brown travelling robes forward. They had dressed lightly and taken only what supplies they needed--a few days worth of rations, their wands and daggers, and the healing amulet of the elves.

Hagrid--an half-giant dressed in animal furs with a grey-streaked beard--approaches from the East; gliding above him in the air are two dragons. They recognise one as Norbert, a Norwegian Ridgeback. Sand kicks up around the two as the dragons circle through the air, gradually descending from the azure sky. Shielding their eyes, Sirius and Remus dig their boots into the ground and clench their fists until their knuckles are white, fighting the growing fear that comes with the sight of all dragons.

Norbert lands first, his black body smaller than the Romanian Longhorn. Tucking his wings close to his large body, Norbert bounds up to Hagrid and rests beside him. The Longhorn, on the other hand, glares untrustingly at the wizards, baring his sharp, yellow teeth. Unconsciously, Remus and Sirius both take a step back as the dragon slowly approaches, accidentally bumping into each other in their fear. With quick apologies, Sirius and Remus force themselves not to turn tail and run. They clench their jaws and fists, blood dripping from between their fingers as their nails dig into the flesh of their palms.

The dragon turns an eye towards them and snaps his large jaws, spitting salvia.

The Romanian Longhorn is named after a large golden horn growing next to two smaller ones in the centre of his forehead. It's chipped at the top; the dragon is an ancient one. His scales are dark green and are harder than diamonds. They glimmer in the sunlight, and his underbelly is a matte green, several shades lighter than his back. His tail is longer than his body, and it rocks behind him as he walks. The Longhorn's eyes are large and alert, one blue and the other silver. When he was young, this dragon had fought with his kin, and he is blind in the silver eye because of this. His wings are large and leathery, with green scales that occasionally flake off as he moves. He's one of the largest dragons of his kind, around fifty feet long and twenty feet tall.

"Say 'hi' ter Prince Flameskin, the Green-Scaled." Hagrid beams as he turns to Sirius and Remus, grinning broadly at the sight of two old friends. "Charlie named 'im, was a favourite of his. He'll be able ter take yeh 'cross the sea, but he expects compensation for his services. A deer carcass would do, I s'pose."

Remus swallows the lump working its way up his throat.

Hagrid peers at the sweating wizards cluelessly. "Oh! That's jus' fear yer feelin'. Don' worry, he won' eat yeh . . . I hope. Jus' make sure he eats before yeh send 'im back, or no tellin' what he could do ter those Death Eaters."

"So we _don't _want him to eat the Death Eaters?" Remus mumbles to himself, considering that it would end quite a few of their problems if they could unleash a few dragons on Britain.

Sirius nods quickly, unable to speak. His mouth is parched, and he thinks he might swallow his tongue if he swallows his fear as Remus did. The fear that dragons instil into Remus and Sirius is unlike any fear that they have ever felt. When Sirius was condemned to a life in Azkaban, he didn't feel dread such as this. When Remus was a teenager and Death Eaters raided his home, killing his family, he didn't feel dread such as this.

"W--we'll feed him, Hagrid, don't worry," Sirius stammers, sweat beading along his hairline. "B--but can't he just . . . h--hunt . . . for his own food?" He shakes, but not from the gust of wind passing over them from the sea.

"That wouldn' be such a good thing. Yeh want to be unseen, don' yeh? Those Death Eaters ain't a stupid lot; they'd notice a dragon running in their forests. Prince Flameskin isn't the quiet type." Hagrid's eyes crinkle mirthfully with pleasure as he looks upon the Longhorn, patting him twice on his flank.

Sirius's eyes dart around maniacally. Of course the Death Eaters would notice a dragon; he's clearly not thinking straight if he thought otherwise. Those Death Eaters have proved many times over that they aren't all thick-skulled.

"He expects an offerin' for his deed. He'll eat yeh two if you don' offer 'im one," Hagrid explains. "Dragons are a stubborn bunch, only few people can control 'em." With a leather-gloved hand, he pets Norbert's side fondly, his face flushed with happiness. He turns back to Sirius and Remus. "Come closer, I'll show yeh how to mount 'im."

The small hairs on the back of Sirius's neck stir as he steps towards Prince Flameskin, the Green-Scaled. He stands next to the great beast, rigid with terror, and the dragon snorts at him, unimpressed with his riders. Remus stands frozen with fright, his throat constricting, for several seconds before forcing his left foot forward, then his right, and then his left again. Eventually, he's beside Sirius and the dragon, his skin growing clammier the closer he is to the beast.

Prince Flameskin growls, parting his lip.

"Yeh'll have ter ride without a saddle. Flameskin won' allow anyone to constrict his movements with saddles. Jus' make sure yeh hang on tight; landing will be the hardest thing on yeh. Remember not ter look down," Hagrid explains as he walks next to Flameskin, the smaller dragon Norbert on his heels. "Lie down, Flameskin," he commands, placing his hand on the dragon's flank.

Flameskin growls deeply from his throat.

"Lie down, Prince Flameskin," Hagrid commands again, and this time the dragon resentfully obeys. Hagrid cocks his head towards the young wizards. "Yeh might want ter call 'im 'Prince Flameskin, the Green-Scaled'. Dragons are noble creatures, an' they demand a big amount of respect."

Sirius and Remus mount the dragon awkwardly, requiring assistance from Hagrid, who tolerates their incompetence with mild amusement. Visibly shaking, Remus wraps his arms tightly around Sirius's torso, holding on tightly. If he falls, he's taking Sirius with him.

Hagrid takes a large copper collar and snaps it around the dragon's neck, handing the leather reins to Sirius. "Hold on tight ter these," he says. "Good luck! Say 'hi' ter Neville for me!"

The jolt drives Sirius and Remus's stomachs into their boots as the dragon lunges into the air. Gripping the reins with white knuckles and numb fingers, Sirius feels his heart jump as the dragon takes flight. Behind him, Remus rests his cheek against Sirius's back, his eyes gripped closed. The ground beneath them becomes rushing water as Flameskin soars higher, eventually becoming parallel with the North Sea. He glides and darts from side to side, and the only sound to be heard is the beating of his magnificent wings.

The flight over the Strait of Dover takes less than twenty minutes on dragonback. As they approach Canterbury and Dover, the dragon ascends again, soaring with the clouds over the two cities. They quickly approach their destination, and Flameskin slowly descends like a shark circling his prey. He lands in a clearing near the river flowing in from the East of the North Sea, hidden from human eyes.

Dropping the reins from his frozen hands, Sirius jumps down from the dragon's back, and helps the terrified Remus to the ground. From the position of the sun in the sky, Sirius guesses it's around four o'clock in the afternoon, which means that they will have to travel through the night and rest during the days.

Remus, face still etched in desperation, glances warily about. Above him, Flameskin snorts as if to remind them that he deserves payment, or they will be on his dinner plate. Colour drains from Remus's face as he looks to Sirius.

"Where are we going to find a deer?"

Sirius grins, his dragon-fear forgotten in the anxiousness that crawls over his skin. "Where else but in the forests? Change, and we can hunt together. Just like old times."

Remus frowns, and casts his eyes towards the ground. "Things can never be like old times. James is dead, and so's Peter. To me, he died the night same night as Lily and James," Remus's voice quavers, and blood drains from his already ashen face.

Sirius's breath catches in his throat.

"You hunt," Remus whispers, his words strong. "I'll watch Prince Flameskin."

Sirius blinks twice in surprise. He had thought that Remus would revel in this freedom. When was the last time they had Changed and run together? "Well, if that's what you really want," Sirius replies, his voice small. Before Remus has the chance to reply, Sirius converts to his Animagus form and bounds off towards the woods.

Remus watches Padfoot dash off, and he walks down to the river to splash cold water upon his face. Behind him, Flameskin lays down to rest, running his tongue over his jaws and eyeing Remus as a tasty morsel.

Padfoot enters the thicket at a full run, using keen eyesight to dodge the trees and obstacles overcrowding his path. Blurs of greens and browns pass him, the scents of the forest animals and, more importantly, deer fill his nostrils. Leaping over a fallen tree trunk, Padfoot follows the deer scent, the wind blowing it straight into his face.

He stops abruptly. Rearing his head into the air, he intakes several breaths, and bounds to the west, aiming to intercept the deer before the animal knows what's happening. The deer Padfoot smelt is a lone stag, and Padfoot considers himself lucky. Hunting for a deer is dangerous.

The stag lifts his head, twitches his ears, and looks around with marble black eyes. He pauses for only a second before dashing away, and Padfoot is right on his hooves. The musky, tantalizing odour of the deer wills Padfoot to run faster, and he leaps.

The back leg of the deer is caught in Padfoot's jaws, and the stag stumbles to the ground. Desperately attempting to kick Padfoot from his hind leg, the deer's eyes dilate with fear. One hoof lands on Padfoot's flank, ripping his jaws from the deer, and he yelps. Padfoot ignores the bleeding in his side and pounces forward, the smell of blood intoxicating to the point that it's all he cares about.

Sinking his teeth into the deer's underbelly, he rips and slices, soon leaving a gaping wound. He then quickly leaps for the throat, and the deer quivers a few moments longer before losing life all together.

Padfoot rears his head up and howls.

He then wonders how he's going to get this back to the dragon.

Remus splashes the freezing water on his face and stands. Glancing back, he notices that Flameskin is watching him with one eye--the silver one--closed. He shudders, scratching his crawling skin. He never once thought that he would be in a position that he would become someone's lunch. Remus dries his face with the sleeve of his robes and walks back towards the clearing, gazing up at the sun.

When Sirius finally returns, he staggers forward, clenching his side. Remus immediately rushes forward, his fear of the dragon replaced by the fear for Sirius.

"What happened?" Remus asks urgently.

"Took a hit in the side. I'll be okay." Sirius cringes, and Remus helps him sit. "Where're the bandages? You'll be able to wrap it, right?" Sirius face twists in pain, and he grits his teeth. Although he's been injured before, he doesn't remember it hurting and burning this much.

Remus whips his head around frantically. "Yeah . . ." He climbs to his feet, and dives for the leather pack resting near the dragon. Flameskin opens his eyes, peering at Sirius, considering how well he'd sit in the dark pit of his stomach.

With the pack in his shaking hands, Remus kneels next to Sirius and fumbles with unbuttoning his robes. Sirius winces as Remus slides the robes from his shoulders. The gash given to Sirius in Animagus form is around three inches, but not fatal. The bleeding is steady, and Remus dabs the blood with a cloth, using rubbing alcohol to clean it. Sirius snarls in agony and pulls away from Remus.

"This is all my fault," Remus mutters. "I should have gone with you."

"Don't say that," Sirius whispers, watching as Remus dresses his wound. Remus shrugs as he wraps a long cloth tightly around Sirius's torso. Snipping the cloth and tucking it into itself, Remus begins to button Sirius's robes.

Sirius lays his hand over Remus's.

"Thanks, Moony."

Remus flushes and jerks his hand away. He stumbles away from Sirius, and behind them, the dragon snorts a small burst of orange fire. He reminds them of his payment.

"How do we tell the beast that his compensation is in the forest, two miles West?"

Flameskin's ears twitch, but he growls. The worms didn't use his name. He lumbers to his feet and snaps at Remus and Sirius, splattering salvia on them. Disgusted, they wipe it from their faces with their hands. Inhaling deeply, fire bubbles inside Flameskin's stomach, and opening his mouth, he breathes a small amount of fire just above the short hairs of Sirius and Remus's heads. They stand frozen, and the dragon sits, waiting for payment--or these two will be seeing the inside of his belly.

"Two miles? How exactly did Hagrid expect us to give the dragon a deer carcass?"

Sirius stares blankly at Remus. "Levitate it," he answers simply, shrugging.

Remus nods. "Stay here and rest; I'll attend to the deer."

Close to an hour later, Remus returns with a bleeding stag carcass floating behind him. Letting the body fall before the dragon, Prince Flameskin, the Green-Scaled eyes his meal. He snorts and climbs to his feet, and Remus forces himself to remain calm. Flameskin sniffs the carcass and breathes a jolt of fire over it, cooking the raw meat. He sinks his massive jaws deep into the stag, contented with the morsel. Remus exhales deeply, relieved, and turns.

"We should rest till moonrise," Remus says.

"No. We should travel as far as we can. Every minute we're here is a risk to our lives. Change, and let's go." Sirius's violet eyes sparkle with vivacity; he seems to forget about the blood-soaked bandage around his waist in the prospect of running.

Remus frowns, sidestepping the topic. "You need to rest," he replies over the slobbering and grinding of the dragon behind him. "It's only around six, we would begin our run at eight, follow the river and find a safe place to make camp for the day."

Sirius purses his lower lip and whimpers deeply in his throat. He attempts to rise, but he suddenly drops back to the ground with a scream. "Bloody hell, Remus. It hurts less when I'm in my Animagus form," he pleads.

"You're still bleeding," Remus points out, dismissing Sirius's words.

"Can't you magic it away? Didn't you memorise the healing spell in Merlin's book?" Sirius whines, resting against a tree trunk. He glances over at Flameskin when he growls, telling them that he is now taking his leave. Good riddance, Sirius thinks.

Stretching his wings into the air, Flameskin rises, sending winds beating against the two wizards as he does. They watch, shielding their eyes with their arms, as the dragon takes off. They inwardly hope that no Death Eaters see the great beast, but, after all, no mere mortal is able to control the flight patterns of the great dragons.

"I can try my wand at the Healing Incantation, but I know it won't heal completely. And, you'll have a nasty scar--"

"S'all right, women fancy scars," Sirius interjects.

Remus smirks, mildly amused. He withdraws his wand and clears his throat. Moments of silence pass, and Sirius stares at his best friend. "I don't remember the spell," Remus states vacantly.

"Like hell!" Sirius pounces, wrapping his arms around Remus's upper thighs playfully, pushing him to the ground. The pain in his side is forgotten in his elation, and Remus grasps Sirius's muscular upper arms, grinning. Sirius's arms support him above Remus, and Remus's hands are ready to demolish the pillars. Snapping his right hand, Sirius's arm lifts from the ground, and his eyes widen. They stare down at Remus, who smirks triumphantly. Remus shoves Sirius from him, and gains the upper hand. Straddling Sirius's thighs, Remus's eyes dilate with amusement and triumph.

Sirius remains still, biding his time. He writhes beneath Remus's weight, although if Sirius really wanted to, he could throw Remus from him. Remus removes his hands from Sirius's arms, freeing them. With his yellow eyes remaining locked with Sirius's violet ones, Remus climbs to his feet.

That proves to be a mistake as Sirius tackles his legs once more. Sirius kneels over Remus and grins, breathing heavily. Normally, such energy won't spend him, but this hasn't been a normal day. "Now, repeat after me," Sirius instructs. "_Ast Minuo de Sano, uth Desino_."

"_Ast Minou de Sano, uth Desino_," Remus repeats quickly and with error, grinning.

"No, no, no! It's _Ast Min-ou de Sa-no, uth De-si-no_."

Remus grins, swallowing. He can feel the heat from Sirius's body through the layers of their robes, and it causes him to squirm slightly. His cheeks flush apple as he repeats the incantation, this time correctly, and Sirius stumbles to his feet.

The ground is damp beneath Remus because of the late snowfalls of the season, and the back of his robes is moist with water. Brushing off dead leaves and dirt after he stands, Remus takes aim with his wand at Sirius's side. Clearing his throat, Remus performs the Healing Incantation of old.

A crystal blue aura emerges from the tip of Remus's yew wand, swirling around Sirius's torso. Sirius's head snaps back, his eyes close, and his body wholly relaxes. The blue energy washes warmth over Sirius as it does its magick, and underneath the wrappings, the bleeding slows to a halt. The wound doesn't completely heal, but it is the best that they can hope for.

"How does that feel?" asks Remus as he replaces his wand in the folds of his robes.

"Hmmm," Sirius moans. "Much better. Now Change, and let's run!"

Remus chews on his lower lip, drawing his eyes towards the yellow sun that is still visible in the sky. Usually, his heart would soar at the thought of running with Sirius. When they run, nothing else seems to matter, they're truly free. Free from responsibility and human inhibitions. "We should really rest first, have something to eat," Remus insists.

"We can hunt. How does a rabbit sound?" Sirius persists. "We have no idea when the Death Eaters are going to patrol here, and I'd rather not be around when they do. I have a thing about being a prisoner, you know that. Small places just don't agree with me anymore." He pouts, his lower lip quivering and he stares at Remus with melancholy eyes.

"Unless you feel like walking through that forest, we can't leave yet!" Remus snaps, flinging his arms into the air in irritated resignation.

Sirius stares at Remus, confusion sweeping over his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Remus hangs his head in shame and defeat. "I can't Change in daylight, Sirius," he starts, his voice shaky and unsure. His stomach contracts into a tight ball, and Remus slouches his shoulders, hating himself for not being able to control his Changes. "We're stuck here until the sun goes down."

The blood drains from Sirius's face, and chills run up his spine. "Just try, Moony! We're in Death Eater territory!" he cries hysterically, the fear of being a prisoner overwhelming him.

"I tried while you were hunting," Remus replies, dejected.

"Bloody hell, if I knew you couldn't change, I wouldn't have allowed Flameskin to leave. I'd rather be in the belly of the dragon than be in a dungeon of the Death Eaters. Damn it, Moony!" Sirius exclaims in a huff. His face hardens and mouth quirks in annoyance.

"If you hadn't miscalculated the timing, we wouldn't be in this mess. I told you it was too early to Apparate!" Remus counters, his veins throbbing at his temple. Adrenaline courses through his body, and he bunches his fists, irritated at both himself and Sirius.

Sirius's jaw drops. "So now this is my fault?" he spits.

"Yes." The word comes angrily before Remus can stop it.

Sirius's fist slams into his open hand, blood surging through his veins. "It's not my fault you are unable to Change. Maybe if you didn't think of your werewolf blood as a curse instead of a gift, you'd appreciate what it does for you. Maybe the Changes would come more easily to you."

"You're not a werewolf, you don't understand. People don't look at you like a monster!" Remus cries, his anger transformed into an unyielding distress.

A blast of heat rushes to Sirius's face. "They may look at you like a monster, but they still look at me like a murderer. According to the world, I betrayed my best friends and killed innocent people. And nothing any Minister says can change that. We're in this together, Moony."

At the mention of Lily and James, Remus's heart aches with nostalgia. "You might be seen as a murderer, but I'm not even seen as human. I've lived with this my whole life; you've just been a murderer for half of yours," Remus replies softly, his body and mind suddenly exhausted. He will need that rest now to transform, otherwise they won't be covering much ground tonight.

Sirius averts his gaze from Remus, hesitant about how to reply. Holding his hands behind his back, he kicks a rock with his right foot. It skips over the rippling water of the river. "If we're stuck here, we may as well grab a bite to eat and rest. I'll stand guard first," he says, somewhat reluctantly. If they are going to be here, they should do something productive in this mission. Arguing isn't seen as productive, the last time Sirius checked.

Remus nods and grabs for the knapsack. Fumbling with the zipper, he unfastens it, tosses a small bag of dried jerky to Sirius, and saves one for himself. Remus plants himself next to a tree in the shade, ripping at the meat with his teeth and leaning his head against the rough bark.

Sirius sits next to the babbling water, watching Remus with unemotional eyes. He chews slowly on the meat and drinks mouthfuls from the water skin. The wound in his side steadily burns, but he's grown accustomed to the pain and no longer notices it.

Remus had only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, the sun's set and the moon's shining beyond the woods. Lifting a heavy arm, he wipes the sleep from his eye, and scans the glade. "Sirius?" he calls, his voice echoing eerily around him. His wolf-eyes quickly adjust to the darkness, and he sees a silhouette in the distance. "Sirius?" he repeats.

"Over here."

Remus yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You looked so adorable all curled up there sleeping." Sirius smirks.

Remus blushes and praises the unknown deities that Sirius's eyes couldn't penetrate through the dark as his. "I should have taken second watch. You needed rest, too, with that wound and everything. How will you be able to run through the night?" Remus furrows his eyebrows, hesitantly frustrated with Sirius. He's not too keen on the idea of running when Sirius isn't rested. Silently, he curses himself for falling asleep.

Sirius shrugs indifferently. "Eh, I'll be fine. You're the one who had trouble Changing." And as quickly as Sirius says the words, he wishes he could take them back. Remus frowns, and Sirius hears him shift. "I didn't mean it like that, Moony. You were tired and I, well, was not."

Remus dismisses Sirius with a wave of his hand. "It's all right, Sirius. We'll run, rest, and then keep running." He stands, brushing the dirt from his robes, and pulling his hair away from his weary face. "What hour is it?"

"Tenth."

"I was asleep for three hours?" Remus regards Sirius incredulously.

"Just like when we were in Hogwarts. All you needed was the black blanket and the fireplace. It was adorable." Sirius's eyes dance at the memory. Vividly, he can picture it--a teenage Remus curled up on a blanket before the flickering flames of the Gryffindor Commons' hearth. Occasionally in his sleep, he'd twitch, or kick his back legs.

"Wake me next time; we've lost two hours," Remus comments, grabbing the shoulder bag and zipping it closed. He tosses it to Sirius, and Sirius scrabbles awkwardly to catch it. "You can carry the supplies for the first bout."

Sirius straightens and mockingly salutes Remus before he doubles over laughing. "Sure thing, mate." He grins, letting the bag slip from his fingers and land softly on the ground. Painlessly, he transforms into a black Labrador, and takes the bag with his teeth. He stands, tail twitching back and forth, watching Remus, waiting for him to Change.

Padfoot whines, stepping closer to Remus. He nudges Remus's hand, licking it.

A smile cracks over Remus's lips as he pets Padfoot behind the ears in good spirits. Upon hearing Padfoot growl at this patronizing act, he chuckles. Heaving a sigh, Remus sinks to his hands and knees, tucking his head in to his chest. Padfoot sits but doesn't watch in respect. Remus begins his Change.

The pain of transforming into a werewolf outweighs any other form of pain on the market. Every bone in one's body will break and remould in the shape that's needed. Although the other Marauders tried to understand Remus's pain, they never truly did. Animagi don't know real pain. They never will.

Remus's mind races with innate thought, and he tries to focus on just the Change. Muscles throughout his body knot and convulse; bones shatter and reform. He feels the familiar Change of his hands and feet, and his back arches, his spine cracking and bones growing to form a tail. He howls before the last painful seconds of the Change, and his ears jerk as Padfoot howls with him.

He rests on his side on the ground, panting heavily, for several minutes before Padfoot bounds over. Padfoot whines and nudges Moony, licking his muzzle. Moony runs his long tongue over Padfoot's muzzle in return, and stretches.

Padfoot blinks at Moony, and suddenly leaps with a spurt of energy into the woods. Moony follows. It's time for the race. They jostle for the lead, one gaining momentum only to lose it to the other.

They've travelled around two miles when Padfoot falls at Moony's heels, panting heavily. His pace slows, the trees and plants no longer unrecognisable blurs. Moony slides to a halt, waiting for Padfoot. They haven't gone far enough for Remus to endure the pain of the Change again. His yellow eyes dart from Padfoot to the forest and back to Padfoot. He dashes off.

Padfoot's lip curls in annoyance, and he's quick to follow Moony. The trees along the river bend are thick and pungent with the smells of nature, and it wills Padfoot to run faster.

Padfoot quickly catches Moony and pounces teasingly. The bag is dropped as they tumble through the dead leaves and twigs, Moony snapping at Padfoot but only catching a mass of air. Padfoot bounds from Moony, grabs the bag with his jaws, and takes the lead.

They reach a dell with a babbling brook passing through when they stop for their first rest. They had run for a few hours, and it was around two o'clock when their pace gradually began to slow. Padfoot laps deeply at the cool water, his ears twitching at a low growl that came from the Moony's direction.

Moony bares his teeth, and Padfoot's eyes show his amusement. That growl he heard had came from Moony's stomach. They stare at each other; no words are needed for them to understand. Time to hunt.

Deer is a dangerous animal to hunt, and under normal circumstances they wouldn't hunt them. The dragon was not a normal circumstance. But this is. A small hare would suffice each of them, and they know this. Of course, Padfoot would rather hunt rat, but that's another story.

They run West until moonset, and both collapse from exhaustion next to the riverbed after drinking deeply. Padfoot whinges and nestles close to Moony, and Moony growls defensively. Perking his ears up, Padfoot trips to his feet and rests next to a large oak and low-growing plants. With his pink tongue rolled out, Padfoot's ribcage rises and falls with every breath.

Moony shudders beneath the uninvited rays of the early morning sun and closes his eyes. The Change from werewolf to human is less painful. Moony considers that it would hurt more if he could feel his legs--they're numb from the constant, forced running. Remus screams, raking his nails against the dirt, and soon the pain is over. Remus lays naked, cold water occasionally washing against his side as the river laps up in spurts against him.

Padfoot stares at Remus before he falls into a deep sleep.

Remus quickly follows.

When they fell asleep, the sun was beginning its journey across the sky. When they awaken, the sun's journey is half done. Padfoot wakes first, transforms back into a human, and shakes Remus to a conscious state. Remus shudders under Sirius's hands, his skin pale and unnaturally cold, but he remains asleep.

"Bloody hell, Remy, you're gonna catch your death out here," Sirius mutters, taking a cotton blanket from the bag and wrapping it around the sleeping wizard. He lies next to Remus, draping his arm over him and pulling him closer for warmth. Remus stirs, but remains in a sound sleep, a touch of drool dribbles from his open mouth.

Remus thought he had dreamt it, but when he woke, Sirius was curled up next to him, snoring softly. In his dream, Sirius was Sirius and Remus was himself. And they were together in the wilderness as they had been at Hogwarts. Back when things were easier. Removing the sleeping arm, Remus slides from his bed of dead undergrowth, wrapping the blanket around his waist. Searching the bag that was discarded against Sirius's back, Remus shoves a few strings of jerky into his mouth, washing then down with warm water.

"Remus?" Sirius slurs in his sleep, cracking open an eye.

"Over here, Sirius," Remus replies, chewing the salty meat loudly.

"What time is it?"

Remus shrugs, glancing up at the sun. "Around two, maybe three."

Sirius yawns, stretching his arms towards the sky. "So we have less than six hours to kill"--another yawn--"before we run again? Great, I opt for skinny-dipping. Need to bathe sometimes; I reek of blood and the forest." He rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns a third time.

A faint smile crosses Remus's lips. "The water's freezing. Literally."

Sirius snorts. "Bah! A little cold water never killed anyone before! Well, it did. But that's not the point! There's a pond over there shaded with trees, it'd be perfect. Besides, I'm sure you'd be able to smell any Death Eaters that are approaching!" Sirius grins, amused with his sense of humour.

Remus agrees. Following Sirius, he leads them to the pond, and Remus can see first hand that he wasn't lying. The trees grow tall, casting shadows across the water and land. Vines link one to the other high above their heads, and moss grows to the North on the sides of stones. The water is crystal blue, darker and deeper in the centre. The sand is white-silver, and it's soft beneath their bare toes. He drops their supplies bag between the roots of some oak trees.

"This place is wonderful; how'd you know it was here?" Remus asks, glancing around in awe. He still clutches the blanket in his hands; the sun beats down on his bare, sculptured shoulders.

Sirius grins ear-to-ear. "I've known about it since I was a child. When I was dragged home from Hogwarts in the summer, me and some friends used to hang around here. We'd play football, swim, and drink. The perfect life for a teen, wouldn't you agree?" Sirius strips himself of his brown robes, the ones left unchanged from his Change, and tosses them over a low tree branch.

"Beats the summer life I had. I hated being separated from you, James, and Peter. All I had was Oz and Mother," Remus replies dryly, neatly folding the blanket and placing it next to one of the many trees. Many other friends may have felt uncomfortable in the presence of others while they are stark naked, but Remus and Sirius are more than friends. They're brothers.

"Oz was cool, so was Accalia," Sirius shrugs.

Remus frowns. Both his cousin and mother were murdered when he was sixteen.

"I would have hated being Peter, though," Sirius comments, recalling the better times they had with the fourth marauder. "His family lived on that run-down farmhouse. At least we had people we knew close to us; Peter was alone. Hey, do you suppose--" he trails off, unable to finish his sentence, the words catching in his throat.

Remus ignores the latter about Peter, and Sirius happily recalls James, changing the subject. "James might have had the shittiest luck of us all. Working full time over the summers at that . . . where'd he work again?"

"The Ministry, Sirius," Remus offers with an amused tone, and he dips a toe into the cold water. He swears he sees his toe turn blue, and chills surge through his body. "Bloody hell, it's colder than ice. I opt we boil it."

Either Sirius doesn't hear Remus's last statement, or he ignores it. "That's it, the Ministry. And that boss-lady he had . . . the one with the huge tits . . . what was her name again?" Sirius takes a few steps back, getting ready to take a running leap into the centre of the pond.

"I called her Peter's mum, what did you call her?"

Sirius smirks. "Yeah. Missus Pettigrew." Sirius takes that running leap, and immediately regrets it. Sinking into the water, he splashes up, spitting water from his mouth and pulling back his wet, black hair. "Sod it all! This water's freezing! Bloody hell, my boys have turned blue!" He paddles back to the shore. "What did you say about boiling the water?"

A smile cracks on Remus's lips, and his shoulders shake in suppressed chuckles. "Boiling water was the first spell Mother taught me, and heating a lake shouldn't be any more difficult." He removes his wand from one of the pouches on the supplies bag, and clears his throat for effect.

"Do you remember this spell?" jokes Sirius.

"Of course I do. It's . . . _Caldor Aquarius_!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, gradually, a malleable light emerges from Remus's wand, twisting towards the water in sudden dance moves. The mauve light adheres with the water of the pond, and Sirius tests it with his hand. Finding it satisfactory, he gives Sirius a thumbs up and a broad grin. With another running leap, Sirius splashes into the pond. Remus follows, cannon-balling into the water.

They dogpaddle beneath the overhanging trees and float on the water, letting the late afternoon sun wash over them. They drink deeply from the warm water, spitting it out in a fountain-like or sprinkler-like fashion. The bandage that's wrapped around Sirius's torso comes loose, and for the second time, Remus inspects his friend's wound.

It's only slightly inflamed, and thankfully not infected. The Ancient Magick Healing Charm that Remus performed helped quite a bit, and the burning sensation that plagued him while in human form has subsided. Remus washes the caked-on blood from Sirius's side as Sirius impatiently waits. Once finished, they continue joshing around, letting the cares of the world drip from their shoulders like the water.

With the sun beginning its nightly rest beyond the horizon, Sirius begins his wade back to the shoreline. An intense flash of the setting sun off steel startles him, and he watches, cursing inwardly, as a faction of Death Eaters stumble through the wilderness. Remus swims next to Sirius and opens his mouth to speak, but his words are quickly muffled as Sirius's hand covers his mouth.

"Shh!" he whispers. "Death Eaters."

But it's too late; one of the Death Eaters noticed the robes flung over the branches of the trees and has come to investigate. Both Sirius and Remus curse themselves for not paying more attention. They should have heard the troop walking through the woods; they weren't exactly quiet.

"Sir," comes the urgent voice of one of the Death Eaters. Remus recognises him as Seamus Finnigan, an old student when he was professor at Hogwarts. "You had better come and see this." He pokes at the nondescript robes with his dagger, lifting them from the branch.

"They won't bite you, Finnigan," the commander's voice comes as he steps to inspect the Death Eater's findings. The commanding wizard of the Blue border patrol is a tall, thin man with long fingers. His jet-black hair is long and pulled loosely back into a ponytail, and his eyes are the colour of storm clouds rolling in. His features are defined and complexion pale. Benjamin Lestrange is a man of his early forties, but it doesn't show.

The fair-haired Death Eater frowns. "You never know, Sir. Travis once found a few scarabs in his bed robes," Seamus replies, his Irish brogue strong.

Remus and Sirius hold their breath, praying that the shrubbery neighbouring the pond will serve as an adequate shield. "Can you count how many there are?" Sirius whispers to his partner, the cold chill of breeze goose bumping his bare skin.

"Five, maybe six."

Sirius nods. "Not bad odds. We could easily take them out."

Remus gnaws his lower lip, glancing apprehensively around. "Sirius, I don't think we should," he murmurs, remembering back to their commander's speech about honour and death songs. So deep are his thoughts that he doesn't hear the cracking of twigs signaling someone's approach.

"You're damn right you shouldn't," a voice sounds above them, and fearfully, Sirius and Remus draw their eyes towards the voice. Benjamin stands over them, his wand prepared to cast the deathblow if they even think about moving. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Two lost little boys. You are now my prisoners. Stand with your arms in the air."

Steadily, Sirius and Remus stand, their arms awkwardly above their heads. Their skin burns hot with anger and humiliation, and Remus's first thought is of his blanket resting not ten feet away. His second thought is of their young commander and friend, and that they failed him. And Remus's third thought is of death. His death. Sirius's death.

"Fuck," echoes through the woods. Sirius recognises the voice as his own. "I wish we'd kept that dragon."


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight : Past Lovers

****

Chapter Twenty-Eight : Past Lovers

Igor Karkaroff remembered Tahirah Nefertari before the moment she first spoke at the International Ministry of Magic. Both having graduated from the Durmstrang Institute of Magical Learning, they were also in the Grimmsey house and occasionally shared the same bed. She caused less trouble then than she does now.

Tahirah walks with an easy stride, her arms at her side and her footsteps in perfect rhythm, echoing off the walls. She is a woman in her forties and is ruled by lust and power. If she attended Hogwarts, she would have been in Slytherin and turned out like Aileen Alaren. By the grace of the Gods, she did not attend. Now, she's alone in the corridor; her honorary guards never accompany her from the banquet room of the Ministers. Her silky black hair sways, and her hips shift from side to side. She stops momentarily at a creeping ivy plant placed high on a windowsill, idly wondering who placed it there and where it would suit better.

Karkaroff steps from the shadows of an entryway and follows Tahirah with an assassin's glide. A dagger is concealed in his boot, his wand is hidden away in the sleeves of black robes, and an assassin's sword is wrapped around his waist, the handle buried in his robes. He learnt that trade through being a Death Eater. In another life, he would have been an Auror. Draped across one arm is a thick cloak with stars and moons sewn into the fabric.

When Karkaroff saw her owl fly through the window and land on his shoulder not one month ago, announcing the engagement of her daughter, he knew that she would be the first of many trials. She was all that stood between them and an alliance with the Ministry of Magic, and with luck, that situation would be remedied.

"Who needs luck when I'm here to remedy it," Karkaroff mutters under his breath to no one. From the folds of his robes, he withdraws two silver Sickles.

Tahirah stops and listens. A soft clicking sound that she hasn't heard since her Durmstrang days draws her attention. She spins around, her royal blue and black robes spinning with her, and her eyes catch a glimpse of her first love. She eyes Karkaroff, her dark gaze landing on two coins he clicks between his fingers. This used to be their way of speaking to another when surrounded by peers or comrades.

"Igor," she greets, as she reaches into her pockets for two coins. She removes two bronze Knuts and rubs them together in a similar fashion, an old greeting that they once used.

"Tahirah." Karkaroff bows in mock respect, fingering the two Sickles. "I'm pleased you remember our language. It has been a while, after all." He licks his lips slowly, studying her with yearning visible in his black hawk eyes.

"You remember as well." Tahirah smirks in triumph. "Finally came to your senses, have you? Rid yourself of those foolish clangers in the Last Alliance?" She speaks with confidence in her voice, sizing up Karkaroff with her eyes.

"Those people you call clangers are the only hope we have to save this world from complete darkness," Karkaroff snaps harshly, losing his temper at her disrespect.

"Really? The darkness can be comforting." She approaches him, running her slender fingers through his ivory hair as she used to when they were together. "I once offered you the sun, stars, and moon, Igor, and I do not go back on my word. Think of everything that you and I could accomplish, we could rule the world if that is what you wish. Together, as we were in Durmstrang."

Karkaroff lifts his arm to motion towards the cloak draped over his arm. "I already have the stars and moon, but those are not what matter. It was your love that I wanted. I haven't forgiven you for cheating on me, Tahirah," Karkaroff replies coldly, grabbing her around the waist with this free hand, pulling her into his soft embrace. "You speak of ruling the world, but you would rather have slaves wait on you hand and foot instead of worship you as the Goddess you are."

Tahirah blushed red in her cheeks, but with her dark skin, it was difficult for Karkaroff to tell. "I never knew I was a Goddess."

"You are to me." He pulls her closer, wiping her crimson lipstick from her lips with his thumb. He caresses her cheeks and presses his lips to hers in a kiss that's long awaited.

She pulls away from the kiss long enough to ask one question. "Are you here to beg for forgiveness, or to join me and rule the world like we were meant to? There is still time for us!"

Karkaroff looks at his love with nothing but affection in his eyes. "You are wrong, Tahirah. I don't come here to join you, or beg you to take me back. My life no longer belongs to the Death Eaters; it belongs to my new family--the Last Alliance. And you could have been apart of it--"

"Could our daughter?" Tahirah interrupts. "She has a good life with the Death Eaters, and all because she didn't know you." She expects the words to cut into Karkaroff like swords, and she's disappointed when no shock spreads over his face.

"Do you take me for a fool? You think I didn't know about her? I was Voldemort's assassin, and I could have just as easily killed Jerrell and saved my daughter from Malfoy. You think I didn't know what was happening in your household? I knew better than Jerrell did; I watched you always after we broke up. I saw how he treated my daughter, better than I could have. He loved her even though, deep down, he knew she wasn't his. He hated her for that, but he hated you more."

Tahirah's jaw drops to the floor, and words fail her for the first time in her life.

Karkaroff leans forward to whisper in her ear. "That first meeting in the council, you didn't think I'd recognise you, my love? Even Severus recognised you. We knew that you would rather ally with Malfoy. Our leader is young and naïve at times, but he is a good man. And I will follow him into battle, and I will die for his cause. Would you die for the Ministry's cause, Tahirah?" he asks, his voice steady and drowning with compassion.

"If they paid me enough, I'd follow them into hell," Tahirah states simply, harshly. "But enough about me, how did you survive Voldemort's wrath? He aimed to kill you after you fled the night of his return," she says, pulling away from his embrace and putting space between them.

Karkaroff catches her wrist in his hand. "You underestimate me. How do you think I survived? I knew all their tricks and more. I killed many good Death Eaters, many of my old friends. That's something you should be able to relate to. How many of our former associates did you butcher?" he sneers.

Tahirah's eyes narrow in contempt. "I did what I had to do to gain power. Voldemort's inner circle isn't a democracy. It's a dictatorship. You didn't get to have an opinion; he gave you your opinion. If Voldemort really wanted you dead, he would have cast the curse himself. You were nothing to him. You could be replaced."

"You tried to replace me. Did it work?" Karkaroff utters in disgust, his eyes ablaze with murderous intent. "You sacrificed Jerrell to gain more power, didn't you? You sold our daughter to Malfoy for a few galleons. What did you have to pay to get him to marry her?"

"I didn't," Tahirah snaps in defence. "Lucius married her of his own free will, for the sake of his bastard heir, our grandson. But I know you aren't here to discuss idle family matters. And you aren't here to join me or beg for me back. So why grace me with your presence, Igor Ivan Karkaroff?"

"With the Ministry's help, we could win," Karkaroff states matter-of-factly. "I didn't come here to join with you, I came here so you would join with us. But I'm no fool; I don't believe you will eventually change your colours as our young leader does. While you are Minister, our efforts are worthless," his tone turns sad, and his eyes reflect that. But whether his heart is breaking because of his words or because of his intent on coming here, he doesn't know.

"Glad to hear I don't disappoint," she scoffs. "Say what you want, the Ministers of many other countries agree with me. Why go into battle when we would be outnumbered? You are the pathetic fools!" Tahirah shakes her head, sneering and attempting to wrench herself from her old lover's firm grasp.

"What devious lies have you told them, Tahirah?" Karkaroff asks, bending down to retrieve his dagger from his boot. His grasp around her wrist tightens, causing pain. Tahirah's eyes widen in fear and realisation of what will be coming.

She glares at him with everything but love in her eyes. "If you think this will help your alliance, you are wrong! Malfoy is powerful, and he will crush you like the ants you are!" she screams, trying to pry herself from sudden death as her mind screams incoherently.

Karkaroff remains silent, staring at her with pity in his eyes as a single tear rolls down his cheek. Twisting her arm, he forces her to her knees, and she grits her teeth as a series of small bones snap in her wrist. "Scared, my dear? You've condemned so many to death already; what does another matter? It's time to make their deaths mean something." Raising his hand, he brings the blade swiftly across her throat.

As Tahirah gasps, her body slips through Karkaroff's hands and falls to the tiled floor. A pool of her life's blood collects beneath her.

"I never stopped loving you, but I hate you with all my heart," Karkaroff whispers as he takes the cloak from his arms and departs.


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine : Valour

****

Chapter Twenty-Nine : Valour

A lone snake slithers through the corridors of what used to be the grand school of Hogwarts. His green scales shimmer silver in the subtle rays of the setting sun as he slides around the boots of three Death Eaters towering over him. They pass, not noticing the reptile beneath them. Vibrations in the stones the snake passes over tell him that another approaches, and he freezes, pressing his thin body against the wall, obscured in shadow. Tears stream down the female's face, and she runs into the bedchambers she shares with her husband.

A tinge of emotional sympathy strikes the snake, but he continues on his way, rounding a corner. The waves of sound pulsate around him as the body heat of two more Death Eaters enters his senses. Curling against the castle walls and pressing his body against the floor, he closes his eyes and prepares to listen to a conversation already taking place.

"I don't understand, Lucius."

"That's because you don't think like a leader, Weasley."

"You may think like a leader, but you don't know what's happening under your nose," Percy retorts, carelessly studying a ripped seam of his black robes. Breaking off a loose thread, he drops it to the floor. It lands over the snake, but his presence remains unnoticed.

Lucius's ice blue eyes scan the dark corridors. He then turns back to Percy when he's ensured that they are truly alone. Lucius's conversations with Percy are always private; they share issues that no other soul is ever meant to hear. "I don't inconvenience myself with trivial matters," Lucius replies airily.

Percy frowns, removes his horn-rimmed glasses, and cleans away the smudges with the sleeves of his robes. Tucking stray red hairs behind his ears, he places the spectacles back on, adjusting them to his liking. "Sometimes the most trivial of matters are the most important," Percy counters.

Percy always thought himself better than the average wizard; therefore, Lucius is anxious to take him down a peg. He bides his time much like Adrian Pucey, and his day will eventually come. "So, enlighten me, Weasley," Lucius snarls.

Inwardly, Percy smiles. "Another of our Death Eaters is going to be a mother."

"Greingrass?"

"No."

"Parkinson?"

"No, Lucius," he barks abruptly, wondering if Lucius is really this removed from the lives of his Death Eaters. Percy keeps open ears to all that happens around him in hopes of hearing news of Penelope, but all he's heard is the business of other Death Eaters. "That's impossible; there's no way Pansy and her _lover _could ever conceive a child." He pauses, frowning. "It's Rae Landon."

Lucius chuckles mirthlessly, an unnatural sound that shakes Percy to the core. "Marcus Flint will be a father? That's amusing . . . and yet sad at the same time," he reconsiders.

Percy nods in solemn agreement but cannot bring himself to empathise for Rae. He never did care for her, not since she paid Colby Warrington to shove Percy's head into a toilet bowl in his fifth year, after he took points from Slytherin because he caught Rae and one of her boys snogging in the corridors when they should have been in Potions.

"I believe that, in a few years time, we will have to set up an education system."

"Another Hogwarts?" Lucius asks, his interest piqued.

Another frown crosses Percy's lips. Despite the Slytherins who had, in the past, used him as their own personal punching bag and the friends he never really had, Percy remembers his Hogwarts days with fondness. "No, all that made Hogwarts Hogwarts is now gone. The Sorting Hat has fallen off its rocker, and Peeves is imprisoned in a jar. Sir Nicholas was finally granted admittance into the ranks of the Hunt, and the Grey Lady mourns endlessly. Lucrece Lestrange unfortunately, exorcised the Fat Friar. She didn't mean to, of course...I think. I hope."

"You forget my favourite ghost, Weasley."

"Ah yes, the Bloody Baron. He is on his honeymoon with Bloody Besse."

Lucius runs his tongue over his lower lip and presses them together in contemplation. "I can order the release of Peeves, order back Sir Nicholas, and--"

A soft padding sound suddenly reaches the men's ears, and both turn their attention towards the source of the footfalls. A well-built, light-brown canine with large paws comes sauntering through the halls, stopping before Percy and staring up at him with baby blue eyes.

Lucius stares down at the werewolf with contempt, for he reminds him of Lupin.

Rubbing a spot behind the werewolf's ears, Percy hears a low growling from deep inside the wolf's throat. He smirks to himself; the wolf may feign irritation, but Percy knows that if the wolf truly hated this, he'd be missing a few fingers by now. The werewolf's ears perk up as Percy drops to his knees, taking a milk bone from the depths of his robes. The werewolf growls but takes the biscuit before continuing on his way.

There are two types of werewolves in the world: those who are trustable, and those who aren't. Most humans are cynical towards the thought of a decent werewolf and would rather hate something they don't understand than open their minds to new possibilities.

As Percy rises to his feet, Lucius regards him critically. Percy's reply is a mere shrug as he silently refuses to divulge the identity of that werewolf. It's none of Lucius's business, after all. And Lucius doesn't press the issue.

"Tell me, Weasley, was your brother's stay enjoyable? I never knew we were offering vacations at the castle," Lucius says sardonically.

Percy's shoulders drop. He sent Terence Higgs to escort his older brother to the castle this morning, but he couldn't enjoy Charlie's visit while he was preoccupied with thoughts of Penelope. "Charlie was a familiar face," he eventually answers.

"I wouldn't let just anybody bring a prisoner in for afternoon tea. I hope you appreciate the liberties I allow you." Lucius casts Percy a smug smirk, his voice pleasantly cool. The palm of his hand rests on the silver snakehead of his staff, and he draws it closer to his chest in a motion of confidence.

Percy's stomach lurches at the reminder, and a spasm of irritation crosses his lightly freckled face. With seething eyes, he studies Lucius disapprovingly. "And I hope you know I have yet to seriously consider killing you," fumes Percy.

Lucius's smug smirk revolutionises into one of triumph, and he examines his staff as he replies to Percy. "Kill me, and you condemn yourself as well. The Death Eaters would tear you apart; they'd never follow a Weasley, even if he did kill Lord Voldemort."

"How do they feel about following a Puppet King?" snaps an infuriated Percy. Blood surges to his fists as he clenches them at his side, grinding his teeth. "We both have something to lose, Lucius."

Lucius turns a cold eye towards Percy, viewing him disdainfully. "Not all decisions I make are in front of you, Weasley! And, I believe you have more to lose than I--"

Two approaching Death Eaters, messengers from their unit, cut his words short. Both wear the black, sapphire-trimmed robes of the Blue boarder patrol, but the black-haired Death Eater has an emblem of a blue-finned mermaid across his lapel. The other, one with dark blond hair, clutches his chest as he gasps for air, secretly wishing that they could have Apparated into the castle from the grounds.

Benjamin Lestrange jabs his elbow into Seamus Finnigan's side, and the crouched-over Seamus immediately straightens, saluting Lord Malfoy with shaking respect.

"Lord Malfoy," Benjamin greets in serious tones, saluting his superior as well. "Two wizards matching the descriptions of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black have been apprehended South of London. My troop guards them, awaiting your orders, Sir!"

Lucius listens with a grin growing wider every second. He could bring Sirius and Remus in for questioning, but he knows them from old, knows they would rather die than betray their beliefs and friends. They would serve Lucius better without their souls. "Send the Dementors," Lucius replies with a steady and authoritative voice.

Percy's blue eyes widen in alarm, and any words catch in his throat.

From the dark corners of the passageways, the snake's black eyes open, and he uncurls, stretching his body. Seamus and Benjamin's departing footfalls pound through his body as he slithers away, forgetting momentarily about Lucius and Percy.

* * *

Severus Snape slithers out the old castle, towards a clearing in the Forbidden Forest where his clothes are safely hidden. Serpent into human is a transformation more painful than beast into human, more hideous then werewolf into human.

And Severus is then lying in his human form on the ground in the foetal position, shaking and gasping for air. Sweat beads on his forehead, runs down his hooked nose, and absorbs into the black robes where he rests his head. Knowing that something more important is happening, he draws the strength to reach for his robes and dons them. Pulling the hood over his head, casting his face in shadow. He quickly flees through the Forbidden Forest, running to the spot of rendezvous with important news about old enemies.

With a quick, deep breath, Severus circles a grove, moving swiftly around the dead trees, hoping that their live branches and roots don't snake out to grab him, dragging him into the ground towards a gruesome end. As he circles, he notices the ground stained with red and silver blood, and two silhouetted female figures appear from the darkness.

"Well?" Elizabeth Morgan exclaims impatiently, her eyes falling upon an unrecognised cloaked figure on the skirts of the grove.

Severus steps through the moonlight into the grove. "Well?" he mimics. "If I were a Death Eater, you'd be dead right now. Don't act like the rookie you are, Morgan. Make sure I am who you think I am."

"Calm down, Severus," Fleur starts, "we're not dead, so we don't 'ave to worry."

Severus removes his hood, his face pale and carved in stone. "You're right. We're not the ones we have to be concerned about. Lupin and Black, the bloody fools, were captured," he says, his voice colder than ice. He never cared for Remus and loathes Sirius with a burning passion, but his commander gave them an order to return alive. "They're set to be executed tonight--Malfoy sent the Dementors."

Beside Severus, Fleur's face becomes a mask of terror, and she gasps, cupping her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

"We have to save them!" Elizabeth's heart soars, but her hands shake with fear. With maniacal hazel eyes, she glances from Severus to Fleur, and then back to Severus again.

"And how do you purpose we do that, Morgan?" snaps Severus, his words lashing against Elizabeth. "Walk through the front gates and beg Malfoy to release our comrades, spare their lives? They'd kill us before we even set our eyes upon a Death Eater. No, we're going to help them the only way we can."

* * *

Dementors feed on the life force of living souls. The fear that they inject into humans is mind numbing, like a cold fist closing over one's heart. When one sets their eyes upon a Dementor, they only have damnation to look forward to.

Dementors once guarded the Fortress of Azkaban, but now they guard those who once controlled them. The first, last, and only attack that the demented creatures have is known as the Dementor's Kiss, where they literally suck the soul from the human, leaving an empty, soulless shell of a body near death.

Elizabeth was in her fourth year when an army of Dementors was placed at Hogwarts, but they were never close enough to affect her. Elizabeth was born to a Muggle man and a Squib, and her mum used to tell her the horrors of Dementors as bedtime tales. Missus Morgan told her daughter how Dementors could drive one insane in a single evening, and the victim eventually becomes as the creatures--the epitome of every horrible memory and dream known to them. But none of her mother's words could have prepared Elizabeth for the pain and fear that the Dementors inflict on her.

Elizabeth's skin begins to itch, and it seems as though thousands of bugs crawl under her skin, biting and nipping at her soft flesh. Cold chills creep up her spine as a warm breeze blows in her face.

Darkness doesn't enter her being; rather, everything that was ever joyous and radiant quickly flees on the wings of darkness. No matter how desperately she grabs onto everything, trying to keep it in her soul, the more she loses. And she wonders if she'll ever get it back.

Being veela means being everything that's beautiful and good in this world. Since Dementors are everything that's dark and evil, they are as two negatively charged particles. They'll never attract each other. But Fleur Delacour is only part veela. Although the veela in her is unjaded, the human in her is fleeing for her life, leaving a battle to be fought between her two heritages. A battle that cannot be won by either of them.

Her breathing comes raggedly and rushed, and her knees begin to shake, threatening to collapse. Beside her, Severus extends an arm to support her trembling form. Fleur leans against him, hoping to bury her fears in the rough fabric of his robes. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut to block the unsightly and loathsome creatures, and images of deceased, decaying loved ones begin to dance across her closed eyelids.

Severus has become used to the Dementors. And perhaps that is the saddest of all. They still affect him, though, still suck every decent fibre from his being. There are not many decent fibres anymore, but they are still there.

Many years ago, when he first encountered a Dementor, he ran. And he promised himself that never again would he flee at the sight of one of these unholy creatures. He's forced himself to conquer those fears.

The three watch in a heavy silence from opposite the castle grounds as two rows of six Dementors float from the castle. Two Death Eaters lead the way; Severus recognises them as an old friend and a student. Both walk with their heads bowed, their pale hands flexing at their sides, trying to bring in heat. They inwardly fight a battle with their worst nightmares.

As the sun sets, the Dementors are draped in a welcomed darkness. Their eyes, which are sunken in their flesh, flash white, and their skin is marred grey, rotting and falling from their bones. Their mouths are permanently frozen open, awaiting their next meal, and black robes swing from their skeletal bodies.

As quickly as they came, they disappear into the night, and life resumes normally, as if nothing in the last five minutes ever happened.

Severus shakes the feeling of dread, turning to his companions. "You, don't do anything stupid. Fleur, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. Don't act until I do. And, I almost forgot, they're taking a train, so get on it."

Yet again I have to make sacrifices, Severus thinks. You dolts for being captured, forcing me to do something I don't enjoy doing. Playing with the lives of people I actually like just to save the likes of you two. You bloody dolts.

Severus growls deeply from his throat and begins his transformation into his Animagus-self. As Severus is crouching on the ground in foetal form, the last thought that runs through his mind is, I look like Voldemort with no arms.

Severus knows these grounds from the days he snuck away from the castle in his student years to escape his tormentors. And later on, when he became the Potions Master, he used this knowledge to get onto the train to keep an eye on the young Harry Potter.

* * *

To say that the changes to the Hogwarts Express haven't been exceptionally noticeable would be a lie. The colour is no longer a cheerful, cherry red; it has darkened to the shade of dried blood. Holes caused by rust eat away at the once beautiful sight; it'll never be the same. Once, countless cars connected it into what resembled a large red snake, but now cars lay on the side of the track, tipped over from the carnage of the war. With skulls of giants decorating the remains cars, the feelings of dread, sorrow, loss, and pain makes a meal of what was once magnificent.

The Dementors, Benjamin, and Seamus aren't the only ones reaping the benefits of the Hogwarts Express. This evening, young Stewart Ackerley and his mentor Travis Nott escort Charlie Weasley back to Camp Alpha. They believe that Charlie was brought up for questioning, though what answers Percy and Lucius sought, they don't know. They're oblivious to the fact that Charlie and his younger brother semi-enjoyed each other's company over the span of the day.

"Why are you bringing those fuckers on the train?" Travis exclaims, cocking his head towards the Dementors.

"Fuckers? What the hell are you talking about? They let you on here, didn't they?" Benjamin retorts, cutting his junior down to his kneecaps, his rightful stature.

The Dementors are placed in the last two cars, while the Death Eaters occupy the first one, putting as much space between them and the creatures as possible. The doors close with a hiss, and slowly the Hogwarts Express begins to turn its wheels, noisily and sluggish at first. Black smoke billows into the cars and the air as it gains speed and loses its chimney.

* * *

As the Death Eaters enter the train, Severus detaches himself from Benjamin's robes. He finds a quiet spot to transform before the train begins moving and resumes his post at the entrance, out of the sight of prying eyes. He waves furiously for Fleur and Elizabeth to come.

Dolts, Severus muses as he watches Elizabeth and Fleur run to catch the moving train. As the train starts speeding up, he wraps his slender hands around Fleur's wrist, pulling her up with all the strength he can muster.

Damn she's put on weight! he curses mentally. And I thought veela were supposed to be light.

As Elizabeth reaches her hand up to be helped onto the train, the chimney topples from above, hits the ground, and flips over several times, smacking her on the shoulder with a loud crunch! Her shoulder snaps as Severus reaches down, grabbing her around her mid-section in a bear hug, whipping her onto the train.

Severus surveys the damage done by the smokestack as best as he can as black smoke begins to fill the cabin. "Fleur, can you mend this? I'm more of a Potions Master than a doctor."

"I'll try, but I can't guarantee anything," Fleur responds as she frees her wand, giving Elizabeth's shoulder a quick tap and incantation. "We'll 'ave the nurse take a look at it back at 'ome, but this'll do for now. I-I 'ope."

"Here's the plan," Severus begins, making his voice louder than the whimpers coming from Elizabeth. "Morgan, you're with me. No more mistakes--as you can tell, they're painful. Fleur, I want you to detach the cars with the Dementors. Then hurry up to the front. By then, the rest of the plan should be completed. I won't tell you what I'm going to do in case you get captured."

Fleur gives Severus a pained look, hurt that he'd think something like that.

"Let's just not have a repeat of World War II, Fleur," He gives her a dry smirk. "I'm going to kill some Death Eaters. Morgan can come for the ride."

* * *

Fleur starts through the cabins unimpeded, heading towards the section where she believes she can detach the Dementors without coming in contact with them. As she enters the middle cabin, she catches a glimpse of a shadow she hoped she would never have to see up close again. Freeing her wand from the inside of her black robes, she directs it towards the approaching shadow. Only one spell comes to mind, and an elven fireball explodes from the tip of her wand.

At the thought of her job being completed, she turns to leave, but a cold hand lands on her shoulder, spinning her around. She screams, jumping back, as she comes face to face with a dreaded Dementor.

The Dementor closes ranks with her, sticking his face closer to hers. Like two magnets with the same charge, electricity surges through them, blasting them away with such velocity that could never be again matched.

Soaring through the air, Fleur blacks out for a fraction of a second. The red and grey-striped bench she flies through shatters into thousands of splinters, and Fleur moans, cracking open a crystal blue eye. Her wand still clasped in her hand, she remembers her mission and completes it this time.

With the feeling of crawling skin where the grey hand touched her, Fleur passes gratefully into unconsciousness, dropping her wand in the explosion.

* * *

The explosion and jolt created from the detachment of the cars and the sudden death of the Dementors slams Severus and Elizabeth through the door, right into the first car of the Hogwarts Express, right into the laps of the shocked Death Eaters.

With Severus keeping his head throughout the whole incoherent incident, he bodily grabs the first Death Eater he sees--Stewart Ackerly--by the collar, whipping him towards a window surrounded by holes of rust, expecting it to hold. But of course, glass breaks. Law of nature. And Stewart tumbles through the air, landing in a Whomping Willow planted next to the tracks. The last sound he ever hears is the noise of his head collapsing from Whomping Willow blows.

Severus isn't the only one keeping his head. Before Travis realises what is happening, Charlie's chains are choking his life out of him. Travis's eyes bulge forward, and he scratches desperately at the chains before his whole body goes limp.

"Severus." A gloating smile.

"Benjamin." A pang of regret.

They gape at each other; Elizabeth and Seamus wordlessly question their superiors. Benjamin and Severus stare endlessly at each other and slowly, as though reading the other's thoughts, they lower their wands. They order Elizabeth and Seamus to do the same.

"It seems that a Death Eater's worst fear is another Death Eater." Benjamin smirks, his dark eyes aflame with vivacity. He licks his lips slowly, studying Severus.

"The only thing a Death Eater should fear is death. Today is not your day to die. I have a message for your Lord: the Last Alliance is an approaching storm and cannot be stopped. And that should put the fear of the Gods in you," Severus rasps, shuddering beneath Benjamin's flaming gaze. The eyes of the Lestrange twins were something that he could never get used to. It's said that to look into someone's eyes is to look into their soul and know who they truly are. When one looked into the Lestranges' eyes, you saw not your reflection in the depths, or any type of comfort. Rather, you saw death and decay, sometimes your death and decay.

"Noble words coming from someone who used to be like us," Benjamin comments, a fondness in his voice. He smirks, a fringe of black hair falling before his eyes, wispy as the morning rain.

Severus shrugs. "Not really, just the truth. Send my regards to Lucius."

"And send mine to Igor."

Elizabeth uninterestedly watches the exchange between the old friends, idly scratching her forearms through her black robes. She turns, sees Seamus cupping his hand over his mouth, yawning, and remembers him from Hogwarts. She never liked him, though; his Irish voice annoyed her. She shifts on her feet, suddenly tripping over air, accidentally smacking into Benjamin.

All Benjamin feels before being shoved through the already broken window is something heavy and clumsy striking him on his back. He screams, having collided with a telephone pole, breaking his left arm.

* * *

Fleur wakes up to the sound of screams. Remembering where she is and what she's supposed to be doing, she staggers to her feet. With blood trickling into her eye from a gash received from the fight with the Dementor, she moves forward to the first cabin where her comrades wait, supporting herself against the dirty walls and broken benches. She slams the door open, hearing a constricting _thud!_ as a response.

* * *

Seamus takes careful aim towards Charlie, his wand hitting him on the bridge of his nose. "_Avada _. . ." he begins, smirking at the sure victory. That smirk is replaced by a look of pure befuddlement as the metal door slammed into the back of his head, sending him forward into unconsciousness.

Charlie, who should be thanking his saviour on his hands and knees, is doing just that. Only, he isn't thanking Fleur, he's asking her to marry him, hearts in his eyes.

Severus glances around the train, ready to disappear.

"Are-are they--the Dementors--dead?" Elizabeth asks, shaking uncontrollably. Their mission, although filled with dumb-luck, is successful. The Dementors that were being sent to kiss Sirius and Remus are now dead, their bodies smouldering coals among the ruined Express.

Severus nods, stepping over Seamus's body. "They are for now. But no one can kill Dementors. Someone will come along to harvest their functional organs and magic life back into their bodies," he begins, turning to Elizabeth. "Dementors aren't created or born, they are reaped from their dead."

"Ewww . . ." Elizabeth shudders, her breathing becoming natural, her heart slowing.

"Meession accomplished?"

A smile creeps over Severus's thin lips. "Yes. Mission accomplished. As long as those dolts don't blow what we small chance we gave them." He grabs Seamus by the collar, tossing him through the window and off of the train.

Fleur exhales in relief. "Good. Charlie 'ere 'as asked me to marry 'im five times, now. It's starting to look appealing."

Severus smirks, mildly amused with Charlie. "The perk of veela blood." He removes a crushed coke can from his pockets and taps his wand against it four times, and then three times. A bright light is released from the can, and Severus holds it out for the other three to take.

"Let's go home."

* * *

At his home in Marseilles, the leader of the Last Alliance notices a red sky at night and remembers something told to him ages ago, an old superstition. A red sky symbolises blood being spilt that day.

"I hope the price was worth it," he says to his missing comrades.


	30. Chapter Thirty : Farmhouse of Memories

****

Chapter Thirty : Farmhouse of Memories

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin sit dispirited among dead leaves, field mice, and miserable memories. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon hours ago, beginning its long slumber. Sirius's violet eyes reflect a despair he has not felt since the tragic night that Lily and James were murdered, the night he was named their killer. Remus cracks each knuckle, staring at the wispy bars of magic that hold them, and beyond the bars to a knot of trees. No words are exchanged between the two captives. They can sense each other's thoughts, but only because their minds run along the same track.

Tonight is the night they die.

Sirius nudges Remus with his elbow and cocks his head towards the five Death Eaters, significantly clearing his throat. The Death Eaters sport black robes with sapphire trimming, and all except one draw their hoods. They circle a makeshift fire pit and what appears to be the youngest one jabs at the orange flames with a twig. His eyes reflect orange as he angles his head towards the prisoners in the shadows. The blond Death Eater's gaze burrows into Remus, and Remus must turn away.

"How's the escape plan coming?" Remus asks, his voice faked in jest and true in sorrow. He leans forward, his legs crossed and elbows resting on his thighs. With a headache pounding between his temples and down his neck and his muscles burning with pain, Remus sighs hopelessly.

Sirius's lips part into a faraway grin. "I think I figured it out," he whispers to Remus, his plan coming to form in his mind. "It's so simple, I don't know why I never thought of it before. Two wizards might not be able to take on five Death Eaters, but two dogs could! We just need to transform! Our problems will be over!" His eyes sparkle with excitement, and he shifts eagerly on the forest ground.

Remus stares blankly at Sirius for a moment, considering it a sin to be the bearer of terrible news, a sin to cause Sirius's joyful look to fade into one of despair. "And while we're breaking our spines and growing our tails, they kill us," Remus answers slowly, regretfully.

"We wait here, and they will kill us!" Sirius cries, drawing his knees towards his chest and covering his face with his hands. "It's hopeless. We're just going to sit here and wait for Death's cold grasp! A grasp that we've slithered out of so many times before! Have we lived through all those chances just to come to this?" Sirius whimpers melodramatically, his words muffled by his hands. He has faced death before, but he was never in a situation where certain death walked the end of the road.

Remus glares at Sirius, his eyes one-fourth scared and three-fourths angered. "If you keep yelling, they'll just kill us faster," he snaps, his words coming before his brain can process the thoughts. "But maybe you want that. Who knows what torture Malfoy has planned for us or what little cell block you will be confined in? Shadows of your past come back to haunt you, isn't that right, Sirius?"

Sirius winces, frustrated beyond belief with Remus's behaviour and words. He groans, dropping his chin into his cupped hands and exhaling deeply. "Why has this mission been one mistake after another? Is this what we've been reduced to? I thought we were better than this, Remus. Isn't friendship a wine? Doesn't it improve with age?"

"Yeah, and it goes well with cheese," a voice from above says, snickering.

Remus cranks his head towards the smooth voice and stares into the hollow eyes of Raventon, a twenty-something Death Eater with painted fingernails and long hair that flows like golden thread. Remus quivers for the second time being beneath the creepy, fire-echoed gaze of this Death Eater.

Raventon takes a long drag of a menthol cigarette, swimming in the minty smoke that spirals around him. He grins toothily at Remus and Sirius, and Remus notices for the first time that his complexion is paler than normal, and not a scar graces his perfect skin. A flash of silver reflects in Remus's eyes and draws them towards the source of the light--a thin hoop pierced through Raventon's left eyebrow. Remus drags his eyes away, back towards the shadows of the forest, through the wispy bars of their cage.

Raventon tilts his head back towards his fellow Death Eaters, a stupid grin plastered across his face as he takes another long drag from the cigarette between his bony fingers. "What d'yeh s'pose Malfoy's gonna do to 'em?" he slurs, noticing Death Eater Finn passing his flagon of imported beer to Kinney.

Finn shrugs. "Eh, kill 'em maybe. Good riddance, I says. Terrible blood, the lot of them. Werewolf"--he clears his throat and spits--"and traitor. Don' know that they be messin' with a good t'ing."

Sirius balls his fists and grates his teeth, fighting to block out the Death Eater's words but failing. Beside him, Remus takes his hand and squeezes it. But the gesture doesn't help Sirius feel better, and his heart still drifts down into his shoes.

The Death Eater known as Kinney swigs from the bottle and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his grubby black robes. "Eh, werewolves ain't that all bad. Just gotta keep dem on a tight leash, y'know what I means?"

"I knows a werewolf." Raventon nods. "Poor bloke is he," he adds.

The fire cracks, sending white and orange sparks into the sky, landing among the trees and near Remus and Sirius. The two captives stare at each other in a prolonged silence. Remus lays his head on Sirius's shoulders, and Sirius drapes his arm around Remus, drawing him nearer.

"We should try. It'd be better than just sitting here, waiting for death to come to us," Sirius insists in a soft voice. "Those Death Eaters are young and inexperienced, spending their time arguing rather than watching us. Change, and we can take them out!" He releases Remus and begins rolling up the sleeves of his robes, rubbing his hands together.

Remus lifts his head from Sirius's shoulder.

"We're going to die either way, but at least we'd have a chance. Listen to me, Remy. A wise man once told me that we are only actors on stage, acting out some predetermined fate. I had contradicted him that day--we are not actors. Help me prove my point, Remy!" pleads Sirius, eyes wild and brimming with tears.

Slowly, hesitantly, Remus nods.

And both begin their Changes, shadowed in darkness while the Death Eaters natter around the warm aura of the fire. Remus swallows screams as his bones break and mend, his hair grows, and canine fangs appear. He rests for several moments before pulling himself to his feet, glancing at Padfoot, who's sniffing at the bars of magic. He begins to burrow, and his instinct proves to be true--the bars don't extend into the earth.

Minutes later, Padfoot is slipping out, pressing his body to the earth, and Moony follows. They leave their wispy prison behind them, stepping carefully through the undergrowth of the forest, concealing the sound of their movements with the sounds of the Death Eater's banter.

Padfoot hears a howl, and it takes several moments for him to realise that the sound is coming from him. Another joins in, Moony. And their song drifts through the wood, startling the Death Eaters. The only thoughts that runs through the Death Eaters' minds as they scramble to their feet are those of survival.

Rip their throats out! a voice inside Padfoot's mind screams. Taste their blood, swim in it and drown pleasantly. Snap neck bones, gouge out eyes and wait for a pretty crows to devour the remains.

Padfoot's eyes connect with Moony's for a brief moment, before they know what must be done. Both pounce, each on a panicky Death Eater, while the other three scramble to get away, hoping that the blanket of trees and night will cover them from the ferocious beasts, forgetting about the wands in their hands in fear of being torn apart.

Padfoot sinks his jaws into the throat of some teenage Death Eater, a mere apprentice. His blood tastes of beer and cigarettes, but it's laced with youth. And Padfoot inhales the metallic scent deeply, his mouth watering. An open-mouthed head lolls to the side, decapitated from the body, half eaten and dripping blood and gore.

As Moony leaps upon the pretty blond boy with the reflective eyes, he considers that it'd be such a shame to destroy such beauty. As he thinks this, his maw bores into the Death Eater's stomach, just below the navel. Blood runs down Moony's throat, entrails are gripped with his jaws, separated from Raventon's innards and flung to the highest tree tops. Moony rears his head up, gore dripping from his mouth, and stares into the eyes of Raventon. His face is still beautiful in death, and Moony bounds after the three who ran.

Padfoot watches as Moony passes him, and then follows, keeping at his heels.

The images of the Death Eaters enter Moony and Padfoot's eyesight, and they run faster, high on adrenalin and the scent of fear, drunk on the taste of blood and freedom.

Snapping at the heels of the Death Eaters, Moony catches one in his blood-stained teeth. The Death Eater flatly falls forward, screaming, and Moony snaps at the Death Eater's calf, severing a leg. The Death Eater falls unconscious, the shock too much for him to handle. Grabbing the wizard as a mother would grab her cub, Moony snaps the Death Eater's neck.

The last two Death Eaters are taken care of by Padfoot, and in the serenity that follows a kill, Moony bounds over to Padfoot, stopping before the Labrador. He licks the Death Eaters' blood from Padfoot's muzzle, and Padfoot returns the favour. The forest is decorated with half-devoured Death Eaters and littered with blood; it drips from the trees and soaks into the soil.

Moony rears his head up with a loud howl and takes off. Padfoot's violet gaze wanders to the fresh meat of the victims and then towards the direction that Moony bounded. After a moment's hesitation and drooling, he follows Moony.

They run swiftly, pushing themselves forward till their legs are numb. They must put as much distance as possible between themselves and the wreckage, and they hope to make it to the outskirts of London by moonset. They don't hustle for lead or snap playfully at each other's heels, for remorse hangs like daggers over their heads, and panic drives them.

The Death Eaters would have word of their arrivals now; Benjamin Lestrange and Seamus Finnigan departed as messengers shortly after their capture. As they pass the edge of the forest, they will themselves to run faster. Their cover of foliage flees them, and they feel naked under the starry sky, visible to all eyes although there are none there.

They run through the night, and when the sky is brightening to shades of light blue, Moony pulls himself to a halt, sniffing the air with his black nose. Padfoot rushes past him, but stops when he realises Moony isn't continuing. He backtracks, slanting his ears questioningly and whining. Moony angles his head to the west, motioning at what seemed to be an old farmhouse. Padfoot, understanding, follows him as he dashes off.

The farmhouse is something clipped from a prairie postcard from Canada. The barn was once painted red, but years of disregard have chipped away the paint and rotted the wood. It stands at a slant, threatening to collapse if a strong wind picks up, but it's stood through the worst of the elements. A slough is to the right, fenced in with barbed wire strung from post to post. It homes many organisms, toads and frogs dominate the populace, and reeks of rotting eggs. To the left of the barn is the Quonset, once home to tractors and combines, now it lies barren. Next to the Quonset is a small, quaint home with a flat grey rock sitting beside the unlocked door.

Within seconds, Sirius is sitting where the black Labrador used to be. He glances around the large yard, surrounded by apple trees and budding flowers. The grass grows yellow and tall, winding its way up the rust-coloured legs of a picnic table.

Remus appears shortly after, stepping from the field of summer fallow.

"The Pettigrew farm," Sirius mumbles. "Somehow, it doesn't look as warm and welcoming as it once did." He steps from the yard, the sun winking at them from beyond the grain bins in the distance.

Remus frowns but chooses not to open up old wounds. "We can rest here and continue tomorrow. London is maybe ten miles away, and the stretch from there to Peterborough is around eighty," he informs, his voice flat from exhaustion.

Sirius groans. "I don't remember it being that long!" he complains.

A small, amused smile plays on Remus's lips, but the energy to respond leaves. Deciding to seek shelter inside the farmhouse, he pulls his body through the threshold, and Sirius follows. They collapse across cheap green couches, and fall asleep before their eyes drift closed.

Nine hours later, Remus's eyes snap open, and he finds Sirius nowhere in the room. Sitting up and stretching his hands towards the water-stained ceiling, he calls for his friend. "Sirius?" A light drifts from the room off of the kitchen next to the bathroom, and Remus can hear Sirius faintly answer him.

"What are you doing over here?" asks Remus as he appears in the room.

Sirius shrugs. "In a word? Snooping."

"The Beagle?"

"No, that's Snoopy."

Remus's shoulders rise and fall in silent laughter. He enters Peter's old bedroom with a nervous step, surveying the remnants. The ceiling is slanted, with a fixtureless forty-watt bulb in the centre. The light switch is a white string that hangs from the light, and tied onto the end is a key ring of a metal rat. The single-sized bed is beneath the one square window facing North, the curtains thin and decorated in blue and yellow plaid. The walls are wallpapered with a sunflower pattern, and one neglected dresser rests in the corner.

Sirius leans against the wall, sitting on the bed. On his lap he has opened a small shoebox filled with parchments and memorabilia from when Peter was in Hogwarts.

"Find anything interesting?" Remus asks, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle his brown robes. The bed groans beneath his weight, and the mattress sinks lower than usual.

A heavy sigh passes Sirius's lips. "Old term reports, photos, some pages ripped from Hogwarts library books." He removes several of the once-bound pages, scanning over them, reading every other word. "Just something from _Hogwarts, A History_, it seems." He quickly slaps them into one of the pockets concealed inside of his robes and continues looking through the paper-coloured box. He pulls out a photo, gazing at it in silence before shoving it towards Remus.

Remus hesitates and then takes it.

The photo was taken so many years ago--June of 1979. It features the four Marauders and Lily Evans all in red ceremonial dress robes. James Potter, with his winning grin and untameable hair, stands with his arm draped over Lily's shoulders, his right hand hovering dangerously, and purposely, at her right breast. Beside James is Sirius, who attempts to stifle a laugh at James's arrogant behaviour. The dirty-blond Peter is fighting to stay within the frame, though picture Sirius keeps pushing him away. Remus is next to Lily, his eyes sunken and overtired, and he shakes his head sadly as picture James grabs Lily's chest and then pulls her into sloppy, wet kiss before she can protest.

Remus places the photo next to him carefully. "Why'd you s'pose Peter kept all this?" he asks in a despondent tone.

Sirius doesn't answer Remus directly, only shrugs and sifts deeper through the shoebox. "Doesn't it seem like another lifetime?" he asks after a long while. "Like it happened to people other than us? Don't you wonderwhen he did it? Or maybe even why?"

Remus chews on his lower lip, tearing off a piece of skin. "It happened to us; our pasts shaped who we would become as adults. We wouldn't be who we are today if our lives at Hogwarts had been different. As for Peter"--Remus slouches, his shoulders dropping listlessly--"I feel that we will never get the chance to ask him."

Sirius snorts; he's not going to waste emotion or nostalgia on someone like Peter.

"Kinda reminds you of Percy, doesn't it?"

Sirius's head shoots up, his mouth gaping open in shock and anger. "How dare you compare Percy to Peter!" he bellows sharply, his voice rising as his body does. The floorboards groan beneath his weight as he whips around to face Remus.

Remus nearly falls from the bed in his astonishment, but he quickly recovers. "They're not so different. Both joined for a chance of power, they didn't enjoy being overshadowed--Percy by his brothers and Peter by us," he replies politely.

"Peter was a coward!" snaps Sirius, his fists flexing at his side.

Remus cocks his head, a quizzical look appearing over his blanched face.

Sirius tightly closes his eyes, dropping his head. "If it wasn't for Percy, our young commander would be dead right now. Percy saved his life. I suppose you could call it his last good deed before going off the deep end," he answers through gritted teeth. "Only four people in the world know this now, and I trust you will keep it secret."

Remus is dumbfounded, and he nods slowly. "Is-is Percy on our side?" he asks slowly, semi-afraid of the answer. He recalls vividly the images of Percy from Camp Phi, the bloodstains on his robes, a swollen, cracked lip, and dishevelled, flaming hair.

"No. He sides with the Death Eaters," Sirius replies solemnly, hopeless.

Remus frowns, having hoped that Percy had redeemed himself.

"Although," adds Sirius in an afterthought. "Penelope Clearwater fights with us, as does Ron Weasley, Roger Davies, and of course, your dear papa." He smirks, his mood rising as he falls back onto the bed.

Remus quickly changes the subject, shifting uncomfortably at the mention of his estranged father. "What else is in that box?" He leans over, drawing his fingers along the sodden cardboard and pulling it closer. He searches through it idly. He finds several torn sheets littered with Peter's writing and withdraws them.

"What are those?" asks Sirius as he peers at the parchments.

" 'I write this on the day I die,' " Remus reads, but suddenly stops.

Sirius stares at Remus and snatches the parchment.

A soft sound resembling a cry of uncertainty touches Remus's lips.

" 'I write this on the day I die  
because no one will understand the reason why.  
I am now a Death Eater in Voldemort's life,  
a black pawn to be ordered to the ground.  
I obey his commands without hesitation or thought,  
he rewards me beyond the gold I sought.  
Many joined with me on this night,  
taking the hideous tattoo on their skin.  
I hide it from those who I call my friends.  
I'm going to be somebody someday.  
I'm going to be the boy every girl wants.  
I'm going to be the boy in Lily's eyes,' "

Sirius stops, his tongue fumbling over the last few words. He blanches.

"Fuck," whispers Remus, taken aback.

In a fit of rage, Sirius rips up the parchment, letting the small pieces drift to the floor. His breathing deepens, and a murderous glare reflects in his eyes. If he didn't think Peter was already dead, Sirius would kill him with his bare hands.

Falling to his knees, Remus collects the pieces of the off-coloured parchment, bringing them into a pile. Above him, Sirius breathes raggedly, and Remus quickly shoves the pieces back into the shoebox. "We should leave," he says after a tense silence.

"It's daylight--you can't Change," Sirius reminds him through clenched teeth.

"I don't care. We can walk if we have to, but this place reeks of death and decay. At first I thought it was because of . . . of what we did earlier, but it's not," Remus reveals, outwardly shuddering. "This place is full of bad memories. It was a mistake to come here."

Sirius nods in agreement.

Remus turns and leaves, but Sirius doesn't follow. Remus waits in the kitchen next to the yellow stove and ice box, attempting to keep his breathing shallow. The scent of death greeted him when he entered the farmland, strongest in the Quonset but still drifting on every breeze. After several long minutes, he leaves the kitchen.

Sirius stands in the room, stunned and angry. He stares at the memento box on the sickly yellow sheets of Peter's bed, and with a blank expression, he empties it out onto the bed, sifting through it. He takes a few other journal entries but leaves all the photos. He owes it to James to discover the truth.

Remus is sitting outside on the steps, staring at the grey rock with the white writing. It says "turn me over" and so Remus leans over and does just that. A weak smile tugs on the corners of his mouth as he reads the underside of the rock: "Ahh, that felt so good!"

As he's turning the rock back over, Sirius takes his leave from the farmhouse.

"What took you so long?" Remus asks, standing.

Sirius ignores Remus's question and asks one of his own. "Do you reckon that Peter still comes back here?" He gazes around the land, hoping to find evidence of life. They stand on the porch steps, a cool breeze blowing through their hair. The sun shines down on them from behind grey clouds above the well.

"I don't reckon he left," Remus whispers, scrunching his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Sirius asks, desperately, urgently looking around in the summer fallow fields, through the grain bins, and between the wooden buildings.

Remus cocks his head towards the Quonset, his eyes aching. "I thought it was just the memory of the scent of Peter, but it wasn't. It's too strong, too isolated." He bows his head in respect of the late Peter Pettigrew.

In silence, Sirius walks away, down the path that guided them here. Remus follows.

Inside the large, metal Quonset, a rotting body sways back and forth in the middle, its feet several inches from the ground. A horsehair rope dangles from a centre beam, its end looped into a noose and fastened around the neck of the Death Eater. Flesh rots from Peter's body, and his left forearm is shredded to the bone. Before his suicide, he attempted to cut the hideous, burning Dark Mark from his skin.

He failed.

In more ways than one.


	31. Chapter Thirty One : Homecoming

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-One : Heir of Gryffindor / Homecoming**

Padfoot and Moony arrive in Peterborough after two days of solid running. The rest of their journey crossed no snags--they weren't caught or followed, they ran under the security blanket of the star littered sky, and they hunted small rodents. Padfoot carries the supplies bag between his jaws and drops it as he yawns enormously. Beside him, Moony whimpers from exhaustion and lets himself drop to his side on the ground.

Daytime stretches out in front of them, wakening from its slumber. It wraps Moony and Padfoot in a warm hug, pulling them close to its bosom as they revert to their human forms. Across the faded blue sky, the sun's lover, the moon, shines dimly before preparing herself for her rest.

Sirius and Remus keep cover inside a ruined house outside of the Northern border of Peterborough, waiting the day through. They dream fitfully of blood and Death Eaters and carefree days, nightmares of death and confinement and betrayal. They sleep for thirteen hours and could sleep for more; they awaken as the sun and moon are passing ways again.

They emerge from the house, surveying the land stretching out before them. The red brick fence of Camp Beta draws across the horizon, and lying behind is the small metropolis of Peterborough. A blanket of fog not seen since the late 1800's in London covers the visibility of the Death Eaters in the city, and streetlamps slowly flicker on, but their light is faint and doesn't make a difference.

As they have many times before, both Sirius and Remus Change into their animal selves.

Their movements are masked by the mistress of night as they march slowly towards the Southern gate of Camp Beta, their bodies pressed to the ground. They travel alongside the brick fence, only a blurry silhouette to eyes that would have to squint to see them. As they round a corner and approach the gate, muffled voices reach their ears. Within a few passing minutes, faces are attached to those voices.

One of the three Death Eaters is somehow familiar to Moony, with his pale, flawless skin and slender bone structure. His hair is spun as golden threads, sitting just past his shoulders. He appears to be in his middle twenties and has eyes that reflect anything that shines brightly around him. At this moment, they reflect a flagon of fire whisky

"Raventon!" one of the elder Death Eaters speaks curtly. "MacNair wants to see ya in his office. I got the feelin' that it was something important, but he didn' tell me any details." He jabs a stubby finger towards the Death Eater headquarters in the centre of the camp.

It's then that Moony realises where it was he had saw this wizard. He must've been the beautiful blond boy's brother, the beautiful blond boy who he killed only a few days ago. The sudden feeling of remorse deepens inside of Moony's gut. The Raventon Death Eater was that--only a Death Eater. But it's still his blood that stains Moony's teeth.

Twig Raventon wheels his head around, and Moony gawks at his Nordic face. His eyes are the colour of faded emeralds, and a silver hoop is pierced through his nose. His lashes are long, and he appears to be wearing black eyeliner, but that's only how his eyes are. His lips are full and stained the colour of dried blood.

Twig nods to him, salutes, and takes his leave immediately. Only two Death Eaters are left for Moony and Padfoot to contend with, but they are too engrossed in their heated conversations to notice what is happening around them. They sit idly in their comfortable guard stand, a pack of cigarettes next to them on an oak table and a carafe each of beer, fire whisky, and brandy sitting at their heels. Weak flames from street lamps hazily light the area, and blurry lines of Death Eaters occasionally patrol the silent streets. Only a few lights shine from inside the buildings of Beta; curfew went into effect an hour ago.

Moony and Padfoot watch the undisciplined wizards in disgust before making their ways towards the guard stand, keeping pressed to the ground and against the brick wall. As loud laughter and voices erupt from inside, Moony and Padfoot slink past the stand and into Beta.

"I'm tellin' ya I've never seen anyt'ing dyke it!" one shouts. "Fuckin' scared to the wits he was, I don' t'ink Tweaf or Leig knew what had hit 'em. Of course, that was a specialised bomb of Lucrece's."

Laugher rises from a grey-haired Death Eater. "Poor blokes," he mutters.

Moony didn't have to be told; he knew the beautiful, dead blond boy was Leaf.

Above them, a lamp flickers, and Moony and Padfoot continue on their way, venturing deeper into the camp. They discretely slip into an alley, the stench of blood and feces blaring strongly in their nostrils. They choke and quickly rush back into fresh air, gasping. Beside Moony, Padfoot whimpers, inclining his head towards the East. Moony rears his head up, sniffing deeply.

A familiar scent fills Moony's senses, a scent that he hasn't smelt since 1993. Neville Longbottom. They bound off towards Neville, running at full speed, twisting in and out of streets and alleys to avoid the semi-watchful eyes of the patrolling Death Eaters. Although it's been six weeks since the attack on Phi, Moony reckon'd that the Death Eaters would be a bit more watchful of what was happening around them.

They screech to a halt before a trashed house that used to belong to an elderly Muggle couple. But they were killed during the purge, and their humble abode is now used to house the last of the Longbottom family; Neville lives alone. No lights shines from the tattered building, and the locks have long-since rusted away. The door swings open with a helpful nudge from Padfoot, and they enter, the floorboards groaning like ghosts.

The house is one-levelled, and Neville sleeps in a small room to the left of what Moony assumes is the kitchen. Torn brown curtains cover the cracked windows, and dust envelops the house in a sneezed hug. A small red light, grey in Moony's eyes, flickers from Neville's bedroom, and as the werewolf and canine prod their way into the room, they notice that the light comes from a species of firefly known as hotaru that's imprisoned in a glass jar.

Neville stirs in his sleep, but his eyes remain relaxed in a peaceful slumber.

Padfoot glances over at Moony before transforming. As Moony suffers the Changes of a werewolf into a human, Sirius gently wakes Neville.

Neville's hazel eyes flash open in fear, and he yelps, collecting the sun-washed sheets to his bare chest and backing into the headboard. His facial muscles twitch nervously as he watches with numb horror. Neville stands as a deer caught in the headlights before dashing off towards the exit, only to be stopped by Sirius's hand covering his wrist.

"Neville!" Sirius cries frantically, his face paralleling that same desperation. "It's okay, Neville! Calm down! Hush! Stop running around in circles! . . . Thank you. Now--close you're mouth, you're gonna catch flies--thank you. Do you know who I am?"

Neville nods quickly, and keeps nodding as he replies, "S-Sirius Black. Th-the convicted k-killer."

"Ex-convicted killer," snarls Sirius, baring his teeth. "I _was _pardoned by Fudge, thank you very much."

"You were?" Neville asks in boyish confusion.

Remus steps from the shadows, his face shining with the sweat and panic of Change. "Sirius, maybe I should handle this," offers Remus, placing a restraining hand on Sirius's bicep as his eyes remain on the shaken Neville. "Now, we're not Death Eaters, Neville. We're not here to hurt you. We don't have much time, though; I'm sure the Death Eaters in the next town over heard your screams," he says curtly but politely.

Neville's wide eyes dart back and forth from the ex-professor and to the ex-killer. "I-I don't understand what you are talking about," he stutters, brushing his light brown fringe away from his face and tucking it behind his ears with a shaking hand. "Why-why are you, uh"--he swallows--"here?"

"I believe you know why we are here, Neville. I think you understand more than you're letting on," Remus says in a comforting voice, taking a careful step towards the young, freshly awakened wizard. "Would you care to tell us what happened a month ago?"

Neville searches his memory and finally something makes sense. "H-how'd you know a-about-about that?" Fear suddenly surges through his body; he forgets the comforting words first spoken by Remus as he shakes uncontrollably.

"I must admit, even I don't know how he discovered you were the heir to Gryffindor. But he believed his mother told him the identity," Remus answers, his eyes studying Neville's movements. He notices that the young wizard hasn't stopped fidgeting since their arrival.

"Naked mother," Sirius interjects. "Sodden hell, I think he needs a vacation."

Remus smiles and chuckles lightly. "That's why he went to Hagrid's place."

Neville watches their conversation with confused, bright eyes, chewing on his lower lip. "Wait. Stop. What are you talking about? Whose mother was naked? Who are you talking about?" he asks, pressing his questions.

Remus frowns. "We cannot speak his name for fear of the Death Eaters finding out. You will meet him soon. Tomorrow morning, to be precise. Now Change, we must be off. This mission has just been one mistake after another." Remus sadly shakes his head, wanting to erase his memory of the past few days, but knows he never can.

"Change?"

"The griffin, Neville."

Neville starts, taking another step back and bumping into the brown dresser, knocking off an old ornament--it rolls into a mouse hole. "H-how'd you know about th-that?"

Remus smiles warmly, but his eyes are on the fleeing dusk outside. "A legend, Neville. Now come, all will be explained upon our arrival into Marseilles." He wrings his hands, the foul odour of Death Eaters becoming stronger. He hears footfalls in the distance, the sound of someone cursing and crying, and the breaking of wood against wood.

"I-I don't want to Change. It hurts," Neville whispers, suddenly the thirteen-year-old child that Remus remembers him as. Neville hasn't changed much over the years; he's lost all baby fat and grown more defined, but he has not grown much taller--he stands barely past five foot six. He still has that innocent façade with eyes that reveal a wonder for the world and a need that could never be fulfilled.

"Yes, Neville, it does hurt," Remus begins evenly, glancing at Sirius who stands impatiently behind Neville with crossed arms. "It hurts, and I know death would be welcomed. But do you know why it hurts?"

"Because all my bones are breaking?" asks Neville timidly, kicking at an imaginary stone with his right foot, and clasping his hands behind his back.

"No, it's because you are special. You and Snape and Lockhart, in his own special way, of course, are all special. You three are the heirs to the founders of the great school of Hogwarts, descendants of some of the strongest wizards to grace the earth. You three, along with the heir of Merlin and Ravenclaw, will be part of something grand.

"Your hereditary Animagi form will always hurt when you Change. Hereditary Animagi are different than the Animagi we know today. Regular Animagi don't know real pain, and that can be unfair, Neville, but they will never know the power that you can know. Still, I can't answer all of your questions, and I won't even begin to try. Maybe our commander will be able to help you; he understands much, and I think he's an old mate of yours. Now, are you willing to Change, Neville?"

Neville doesn't have to stop and think--Remus had him convinced halfway through the speech. He bobs his head excitedly, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of being free.

"Excellent," Sirius says. "Is there anything you wish to bring with you? We can place it inside of our supply bag." Sirius motions to the pitiful sack in his hand, now empty, torn, and wasted with holes from travel and wear.

Neville scans his bare bedroom and makes a mad dash towards his bed, throwing his pillow to the side to grab for a wand that's hidden beneath it. "I only want to bring this with me!" He holds it up to the window with both hands, inspecting it as a small child would, then showing it to Sirius and Remus.

Remus's eyes become saucers. "H-how did you get that? No prisoner is allowed wands or magical supplies--they were all destroyed in the purge!"

Neville's cheeks burn apple red, and he drops his eyes towards the floorboards. "Well . . . I received it from the ghost of Godric Gryffindor," he admits sheepishly. "A-about a month ago. I-I know it sounds w-weird and . . . false."

Sirius smiles, seizing Neville's shoulder. "It makes more sense than you think."

Remus swiftly turns his head towards the window, where the approaching footsteps of a troop of Death Eaters can be heard. He averts his attention back towards Sirius and Neville, and the looks on their faces tell Remus that they heard them as well.

"We have to leave quickly!" Sirius presses, staring pointedly at Neville.

Neville nods, and begins his Change into the fabled golden griffin.

Screams of agony fill the house, cutting through the silent night. Remus and Sirius clench their eyes, shutting out the gruesome sight of human becoming beast.

Outside, the approaching Death Eaters stop short and whip their heads towards each other, frightened questions appearing in their eyes. They start into a sprint towards the source of the terrible, painful screams.

Where Neville Longbottom once stood now stands a mythical beast worthy of admiration. The griffin stretches his wings, his hazel eyes staring down at Remus and Sirius as he crouches. Wrapping their hands around the golden mane, the wizards pull themselves onto his back. After they've adjusted their seating and the Death Eaters burst through the door and into the house, the griffin leaps into the air, crashing through the thatched roof.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" shouts one of the Death Eaters.

The curse smacks the griffin on the flank and bounces off without any effect.

* * *

The griffin flies through the night, reaching Marseilles by mid-morning of March 31. He lands gracefully on the balcony of the highest level of the Delacour Manor, letting the frozen Remus and Sirius slide off.

Rubbing their hands together and breathing warm air on them, Sirius and Remus lean against the rough stone wall.

In a cry of pain that echoes across the land, Neville kneels where the griffin once stood. His naked body convulses with shivers, and he wraps his arms around his knees, drawing them to his chest.

Remus rushes forward, wrapping the young wizard with his cloak and helping him to his feet. He leads Neville inside and Sirius follows, closing the balcony's glass door with his foot.

From across the marble-floored room, a wizard the same age as Neville Longbottom stands, ruffling through sheaves of parchment, reorganizing them into piles. Neville suddenly stops, his hands shaking and sweat beading along his hairline. With a deep breath, he gaily bellows the name of this wizard in greeting. . . .


	32. Losing Faith's Theme

**Losing Faith's Song**

Emerald Isles litter broken castles with stained circular windows  
and snakes walk through jaded marble of grey eyes and crimson hair,  
choosing between black death and silver emeralds  
only to cover the Earth with battles raging between the Gods and heroes.

Merlin's raven died with King Arthur and  
Excalibur's jewels of scarlet rubies and exquisite diamonds were  
buried upon Avalon.  
Gargoyles were called to war,  
the trumpet sounded by Merlin's last heir.  
They ravaged the lands, judging sorcerers in Hades' robes before  
plunging their fangs and talons into warm flesh and cold blood.

Eagle tears are sapphires  
splashing against ocean waters of forbidden love.  
Let he who is tainted, spoiled by the stench of death, cast the first curse.  
Magick without words.  
Eagles paint skies of fury and turn blind, gorged eyes towards right and wrong.  
Love is a tart  
and trapped where she belongs.

Pointy eared creatures fled their Atlantis Empire as vengeful  
and angry Gods punished their arrogant children.  
And the father of the Wisdom Goddess of old  
shackled iron collars around the necks of his new slaves.

Violet eyes mark elves and a serious  
wizard uncovers lost history hidden from mortal eyes.  
Phoenixes were born in fire, dragons died in elven magicks.  
Griffins roared and battled gargoyles for dominance over the Southern lands.

Time passes and gargoyles turned to stone while griffins were  
imprisoned in flesh, only to be reawakened when  
time was near an end and change at hand.  
Citrine airs covered the lands and soon history forgot itself  
and bliss spread across the faces of men's kings  
as gold filled their pockets and homes.

Power corrupts and evil dwindles.  
Gods refused to play the game.

The Eastern sun bleeds with black dragon wings.  
Western lands break seven golden seals and  
a white-robed vigilante bleeds points from his forehead.  
Northern skies roll grey rain clouds beneath sixteen hooves beating  
famine, pestilence, plague, and war.  
Southern fires break the heroes and feed the warlords of old.  
And the Gods watch as their world cries  
and they turn deaf eyes to justice and balance.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two : Cat's Eye

**Chapter Thirty-Two : Cat's Eye**

Neville Longbottom sits in the library of the Delacour Manor, staring with wide-eyed wonder at the magnificence of the chamber and the wizards around him. Seven others join him at the maple table, and for the first time since that fateful night with his ancestor nearly a month ago, Neville feels safe. He doesn't mind that one of the wizards is the loathed ex-Potions Master and another is the prideful ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts professor; Neville is ecstatic to see the familiar, friendly faces.

"So another piece falls into our outstretched hands," offers Severus Snape, folding his arms over his chest. "You'd think we have horseshoes up our arses with the way our missions went."

Fleur Delacour, who is seated between Sirius Black and Gilderoy Lockhart, creases her feathery eyebrows, her blanched face carved in stone. "You say you-you . . . _ate_ your captors?" she asks Sirius and Remus, tripping over her tongue as she speaks.

Sirius nods excitedly, grinning stupidly. "Tasted like chicken."

Fleur's stomach jumps into her throat, and her complexion fades to a sickly green.

"I believe that isn't the point of this meeting, Fleur," the commander reminds them, balancing a Muggle mechanism called a pencil on his upper lip and leaning back on his chair. "There's still an heir of Ravenclaw out there who needs our . . . well, I'd say rescuing, but he's a Death Eater. I don't reckon he needs much rescuing."

Elizabeth Morgan leans forward, resting her elbows on the tabletop and clasping her hands together in a professional manner. "How would we convince a Death Eater--someone who has everything going for him--that he should help us? I think we may be, as the saying goes, barking up the wrong tree here."

Severus sharply elbows Sirius in the ribs. "You hear that? No barking, mutt."

Sirius balls his fist, draws his arm back, and prepares to spring into action.

"Severus, Sirius, if you can't act civilised, please leave," drones the commander, and the pencil falls from his lips as he speaks, rolling across the floor. He continues after a thick, reluctant silence from Sirius and Severus. "Thank you. Now, according to many sources, my mother included--"

"Naked mother," coughs Sirius, an immature grin appearing on his face. "Mate, the next time you have that dream, how d'you fancy inviting me along for the, uh, ride?"

The commander's mouth drops. "Bloody hell, Sirius! That's my mother!"

"Sir?" Neville interrupts, his voice a squeak a mouse could barely hear. "Sir?"

The black-haired wizard starts, staring at Neville with surprise; this is the first time Neville has spoken since meeting those in the Last Alliance. "The 'sir' isn't necessary, Neville. Now, what's on your mind?"

Neville chews his already bleeding lower lip, dragging his gaze towards the floor. "I-I know who the heir of R-Ravenclaw is . . ." he stammers, fidgeting with the hems of his new, elegant gold and red robes. "The night I was awakened . . . I f-found myself drawn towards Hogwarts, d-drawn to the Quidditch game . . . an-and I saw into his soul, saw the essence of Rowena Ravenclaw."

"Do you know his name, Neville?" urges Charlie Weasley, placing a comforting hand upon Neville's left shoulder. Neville looks into Charlie's beaming face and warm, apple green eyes, and warmth washes over his being.

"I recognised him," starts Neville, dictating his words to the freckle-faced Charlie. "He was Chaser on the Slytherin team--I think his name was Andre Pucky."

"Adrian Pucey," snaps Severus, and Neville slumps in his seat, embarrassed.

The commander nods, remembering very little of Adrian. "He hasn't, by chance, 'faltered' yet, has he?"

Severus shakes his head and sets down the black-tipped quill he uses to record the minutes, massaging the crick from his wrist. "Nothing as of yet. Lupin can owl Avery, tell him to keep an eye on Pucey, see to it that--"

"No one kills him," Charlie interrupts wryly, and all seven pairs of eyes drift to him.

"I believe I was speaking, Weasley," snarls Severus.

The heir of Merlin casts Severus a warning glance. "Let Charlie talk, Snape," he says sternly, turning to the older Weasley brother. "What do you mean, Charlie? Adrian is a Death Eater, so who would want to kill him?"

Charlie rubs the back of his neck and shrugs helplessly. "Well, Percy tells me that Adrian is in love with Marcus Flint's woman. I know Flint, but more importantly, Percy knows Flint. There's no doubt in Percy's mind, or mine, that Adrian would be a dead man walking if news of his affair with Landon reaches Flint."

"It may be reaching Flint sooner than we think," Severus says with a grimace. "According to Percy, young Landon is pregnant, and the baby is Adrian's." A frown crosses his thin, pale lips.

"If this Adrian is going to have an heir, wouldn't that make the child the heir of Ravenclaw and not Adrian?" asks Elizabeth in an innocent voice.

Igor Karkaroff clears his throat loudly. "They would both be the heirs. Being an heir is in the blood, it's not something that can be taken from you. It's not something you have to earn. It's your birthright," he replies, voice hoarse and tired.

Elizabeth slowly nods, only thinking that she understands.

"Snape, you spoke earlier about eavesdropping on Percy and Malfoy. What of news?"

Severus's shoulders slump. "Did anyone here know that Percy killed Voldemort?" he asks dryly.

Charlie sheepishly raises his hand.

The commander closes his eyes, bringing to mind the last instance he saw the third eldest Weasley brother. Percy was kneeling over him, looking much younger than he really was, his index and middle fingers pressed against the side of his neck, searching for a sign of life, any sign of life. "Our hero," he mumbles, shaking his head and the image from his mind. "Anything else?"

Severus searches the files of his mind, drawing forth those on the previous ghosts of Hogwarts, no matter how trivial they may seem. "Lucrece Lestrange exorcised the Fat Friar, and the Bloody Baron has been recently married."

"Really?" Sirius perks up. "To who?"

"Bloody Besse," answers Severus.

Remus snorts. "How fitting."

A small smile cracks along the commander's lips as he remembers back to the four ghosts of Hogwarts, Nearly Headless Nick being his favourite. "Remus, I want you to owl your father as Snape suggested and tell him to attach a Cat's Eye to Adrian Pucey. I prefer him alive. Is there any other business?"

Now it's Neville's turn to raise his hand. "Cat's Eye?"

Sirius gladly fields this one. "A Cat's Eye is an invisible globe that follows one around and records their actions, but, unfortunately, not their words. It's a technique of the elves, my people." Sirius proudly draws himself up, patting himself on the chest for effect. "It will inform Gene immediately if Adrian is in any sort of trouble. You see, it's been prophesied that the heir of Ravenclaw will, somehow, falter."

"How do you know he won't be killed? Maybe that's how he will falter."

"Simple, Neville. If Adrian dies, we're royally screwed," Sirius answers with a grin.

The commander shakes his head, massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger before running his hand through his black hair. "He's only joshing with you, Neville, don't worry. Adrian won't be killed. The Gods wouldn't let him die, they wouldn't screw us over again."

" 'Course, cause we _all_ know the fates the Gods have already dealt us," Sirius replies sarcastically, resting his right elbow on the table and propping his chin in his palm.

From across the table, Neville shifts in his seat. "Uh . . . would anyone like to tell me why I'm suddenly an Animagus?" Neville squeaks, studying his scarred hands so he doesn't have to make eye contact with the Last Alliance.

Karkaroff yawns before responding. "You've always had that power, but because of that memory charm that was performed on you as a youngen, that power was never wakened till Godric Gryffindor himself released your inner energy. Each of the heirs has a hereditary trait, and yours just happens to be an Animagus form. The heir of Salazar Slytherin is a parseltongue, while the heir of his brother, Balthazar, is also a hereditary Animagus. Unfortunately, I have yet to translate the rest of the text, and we haven't yet discovered the abilities of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Merlin."

Neville wipes his sweating palms on his lap before sitting on his hands. "Mister Black is an Animagus as well, so why doesn't it tear him apart to transform?" asks Neville, tears filling his eyes at the mere memory of the pain of the Change.

Karkaroff presses his lips together, tired and wanting to retire to his bedchambers. Since his journey to the Manor of Nefertari, he hasn't been himself, but he doesn't feel remorse for his actions. Which might be what hurts the most. "Hereditary Animagi deal with Ancient Magick, while an Animagus such as Black uses Word Magick, the weakest form of magick. The third type of magick in the world is Blood."

"All right," begins the commander before Neville can ask any other questions. "We have been permitted an audience before the Ministry of Magic, and it seems that they may have come to their senses. Fleur, Karkaroff, Snape, Remus, Sirius, Charlie, and myself will be attending this meeting--"

There was a small uproar from Elizabeth. "What? I'm a part of this, too! You can't expect me to sit around here and just do nothing!" she shrieks, viciously gesturing with her hands.

The commander raises his hand for silence. "The leading order of the Last Alliance consists of those mentioned, Morgan. Succeeding in your first mission due to dumb luck does not enable you to suddenly ascend the ranks," he replies firmly.

"Charlie-boy just arrived here yesterday!" Elizabeth jabs her finger towards Charlie with each word.

"_Mister Weasley_," he emphasizes the name, "is the only wizard besides Hagrid who can control dragons. We are going to need his expertise. Now, please take your leave to your bedchambers everyone; tomorrow comes early. Too early for some," he adds, staring pointedly at the sleeping Karkaroff.

"Karkaroff!" Sirius screams, cupping his hands to Karkaroff's ear.

Karkaroff jumps out of his seat to a conscious state.

Remus and Sirius snicker while the others roll their eyes.

"The meeting with the Ministry is at nine o'clock, so be prepared to leave at eight. Everyone except for Karkaroff is dismissed," orders the heir of Merlin, ignoring Sirius's immaturity, although his eyes quirk. Sirius's antics are getting old faster than he would have thought. Those seated around him stand and file towards the door without any other words.

As Sirius passes, he squeezes his commander's shoulder, whispering, "Go easy on him, mate. It's not his fault he's been hitting fire whiskey after fire whiskey after fire whiskey." The alliance leader shrugs Sirius's hand from his shoulder, and stares pointedly towards the door. Sirius, taking the hint, pushes Gilderoy (who would rather stay and look at all the "pretty little books") out with him.

"Igor. May I call you Igor?" the commander asks politely once the wooden doors have glided closed. Karkaroff nods, and the wizard continues. "Igor, do you have an idea about why the Ministry suddenly wants to help us?"

Karkaroff shakes his head.

"You're lying to me."

"How'd you know?" he croaks.

"Cat's Eye, Igor," the black-haired wizard replies gently. "I set one to follow Miss Tahirah Nefertari. I saw what you did, what you forced yourself to do for the greater good of our cause--a cause that you don't even have to be a part of. I never sent you to assassinate her, would have never dreamt it. And do you know why?

"Because it's wrong!" He slams his fist onto the table, his voice rising angrily. "We are not Death Eaters, or have you forgotten that? We do not kill people standing in our way! If you do something this stupid again, I will be forced to turn you into the Ministry, and I don't wish for that to ever happen. Now get out of my sight!" He brusquely waves his arm towards the door.

Karkaroff nods, his jaw stiffening. He shoves past his commander, too angry for words and too embarrassed to deal. No one besides him knew his past relationship with Tahirah. When he joined up with the Last Alliance, he left his past were it belonged.

"Oh, and Igor?"

Karkaroff stops with his hand on the door but doesn't turn around. "What?"

"Thank you."


	34. Chapter Thirty Three : Death Eaters

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Three : Death Eaters**

Marcus Flint's fist drives onto the rough stone wall of the corridor next to Rae Landon's head, shattering what was left of his knuckles. Rae inwardly jumps and lets her blue eyes fall closed as Marcus presses his broken-knuckled right hand against her stomach, leaving a bloody, three fingered imprint over her light green nightdress. He grins crookedly, his breath reeking of fire whisky, and Rae turns her head to the side.

"Pregnant?" he spits, disgusted. "I heard from Higgs who heard from Parkinson who heard from Greingrass that you're pregnant. Why am I the last to know?"

Rae wipes Marcus's salvia from her face with a trembling hand. "What part of it was Terence not clear on? Yes, Marcus, I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father, Merlin forbid," Rae replies dryly, rolling her eyes towards the water-stained ceiling.

"Don't talk back to me!" growls Marcus, slamming his fist into the wall once more, pulling away with bloody, raw, mangled knuckles.

"Careful, Marcus, or pretty soon those uppity women-folk are gonna want the vote!" Rae spits sarcastically, smacking Marcus's hand from her stomach, boldly staring him in the eye. She hides her shaking hands behind her back, pressing her palms to the cool stone in hopes of finding some comfort.

Marcus raises his hand and backhands her. "Don't think that because you're with child you still won't get what you have coming to you. I'm not as stupid as you look; I know that kid isn't mine. I know you've been sleeping around, and when I find out who the real father of that brat growing inside of you is, I'm going to kill him. And I'm going to make you watch!"

Rae squeezes her eyes shut at the burning pain in her cheek. "Who-who told you?" she demands, her voice cracking.

"Higgs. Seems the prat's good for somethin' after all, besides being a lawn ornament. I don't have him to thank for everything, though," Marcus replies with a sneer across his troll-ish face. "Your dear mother was also very helpful. You see, my pet"--he balls his fists at his side, talks through his teeth--"the genes of one-quarter species are incompatible with full-bred humans. If you're fucking pregnant, that kid in there isn't mine." He jabs his middle finger into the flesh of her stomach.

Rae cocks her head. "Wow. For a minute there, you almost sounded intelligent. Almost. Of course, you're only fooling yourself."

"You are not in the position to talk back," he snarls, taking his hand from her stomach and running it through her hair, advancing upon her again. A jet of heat and lust rushes through Marcus's body as he presses against Rae. His breathing quickens. She squirms against him, and that feeling of desire intensifies, stirring into Marcus's bones.

Rae's stomach churns. "We're in the corridors," she reminds him, although she herself isn't one to care, and she doubts Marcus does. In fact, her protests would only make him want her more.

Marcus glances around; the empty corridor stretches out around them, and their only companions are the skittering spiders of the dungeons and the darkness that looms from all directions. "You know as well as I do that barely anyone enters these corridors 'cause there's nothing down here besides my chambers and Snape's old office. But if you're suddenly so modest . . ." He trails off, whipping his head around to a noise Rae can't hear. He'd curse the irony if he only knew what irony was.

Marcus pulls his hands from Rae and takes a step back as a dark, shadowy figure rounds the corner, coming from the darkness. It's recognisable as a large canine--a werewolf--with bright, baby blue eyes and light brown, blood-matted fur. He bounds with a limp, avoiding placing his full weight on his front paw. A long gash above his right eye bleeds blood into his vision, obscuring the grey images of Marcus and Rae.

Marcus sneers and spits in the werewolf's path.

The werewolf rears his head up and raises his lip, growling. He snaps, threatening to take off another of Marcus's fingers, before disappearing back into the darkness.

Rae inhales sharply, realising she hasn't breathed since the werewolf came into view. A dotted trail of blood marks the path that the werewolf walks, and he's soon gone, having snuck into Snape's old office.

"Do you--" Rae starts, looking to Marcus and his superior sense of smell.

Marcus shakes his head dismissingly. "The scent of blood overwhelms him." He then turns back to Rae, running his tongue over his lower lip. "Come, I'm not on duty again till the morning, and we still need to discuss the matter of someone else's child inside of you."

"Discuss? I never thought you ordering me around was discussing."

"Shut the fuck up, or I'm gonna shove my d--"

"Flint!" a voice calls down the corridors, covering Marcus's next words.

Marcus curses loudly, loathing this second interruption. He wraps his hand around Rae's wrist as she finds this time to turn and flee. The fair-haired messenger skids to a halt, clutching his chest and gasping for air.

"Lord Malfoy has . . . called . . . an immediate emergency"--he coughs--"meeting of his higher Death Eaters to discuss the matters of the past week," Seamus Finnigan reports gutturally, saluting the honorary guard.

Marcus snorts. "I wondered when he'd get around to that," he muses to himself. "Fine, I'll be there, but I have another matter to attend to, first. You're dismissed." Marcus irritably waves Seamus away, his eyes lingering on Rae.

Seamus salutes again, purposely avoiding eye contact with Marcus and his skimpily dressed woman. "Yes, Sir. If I may say, Sir, you'd be smart to"--his eyes flicker to Rae, and stay there--"put off your other business. Malfoy is right angry. He's already been in a row with Lestrange and Weasley."

"I said you were dismissed, Finnigan!" rumbles Marcus, outraged. "Don't forget your place. I say you are dismissed, and you are dismissed!"

Seamus starts, dragging his eyes from Rae. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I'll be on my way now, Sir," he mumbles and quickly departs from whence he came, to deliver his message to another.

Marcus's grip around Rae's wrist tightens, and he drags her down the corridor. "Come. You'll spend the night in my chambers and wait for my return. When I've decided what to do with that child, I'll inform you." He bangs open the wooden door to his chambers, and the stench of mildew and fire whisky slams Rae in the face. He bodily throws her in, locking the door from the outside and pocketing the key in his black robes.

* * *

The Lunar Congregation Hall of the ancient castle is made from polished alabaster. The vast ceiling of the magnificent hall is made entirely from glass, and the brilliant light of the moon and stars filter through, casting a mystical aura over the silver statues of many species that decorate the hall. These statues stand from one foot to six feet tall and are placed in the corners of the meeting chamber. A heavy, black birch table engraved with ivy vines, stars, and moons has been placed in the centre of the hollow, and a series of fifty silver-cushioned seats of matching wood surround the table.

Lucius Malfoy thrusts the black metal doors open, his right hand in a white-knuckled grip around his snakehead cane. As he enters the Lunar Ceremonial Hall, a feeling of warmth comes over him, and chimes begin to sing from the many statues. He glances around irritably, and the annoying song stops. He takes his seat at the head of the table--two honorary guards follow beside him, their wands in hand. Ranks of Death Eaters trail their lord, and soon the hall is packed with an assembly.

The Death Eaters sit in an uneasy silence that's only disturbed by a drumming of fingers against the table, the clearing of a throat, or the occasional groan of pain. Fifty pairs of concerned eyes are drawn to Lord Malfoy, waiting for him to speak, which he does after several tense minutes.

"What type of imbeciles do I have working for me?" he bellows, slamming his staff onto the alabaster flooring. Those Death Eaters closest to him jump, startled from the sudden, but not unexpected, outburst. "I can understand the escape of Lupin and Black--those Death Eaters were young and inexperienced and deserved being torn apart! But--"

At this, Twig Raventon's heart jolts into his mouth, and he leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair with a clatter.

"Sit down, Raventon! I hold no remorse for what happened to your twin. An experienced Death Eater, when facing sudden demise, wouldn't have fled with his tail between his legs, he would have fought till the bitter end. A simple killing curse would have taken care of Lupin and Black, but because of the incompetence of Finn, Raventon, Kinney, Briggs, and Kane, their entrails had to be mopped from the forest floor and we are short two soulless prisoners!"

Twig grudgingly takes his seat, his thin brows creased and his mouth suddenly dry. "You sent the Dementors to execute Lupin and Black, to drink the souls from their bodies. If you wished them dead, the Blue Patrol could have carried out those orders." He quickly adds, "Sir."

Lucius chuckles mirthlessly. "You dare ask me a question, Raventon? Fine. I will humour you," his voice darkens to a serious tone. "Two soulless prisoners would have served me better than two lifeless ones. You see, without their souls, Lupin and Black would have still been alive, but any individuality and verve would have been sucked from their bodies. They would have been empty shells, and eventually that would have killed them. But without their morals, they would have done anything I commanded them to. It was my intention to interrogate them about this Last Alliance."

Twig nods slowly, processing the words in his mind.

"In addition to the Death Eaters that we have lost, two prisoners have also been liberated. Neville Franklin Longbottom and Charles Lucas Weasley. Longbottom was a target for Lupin and Black, in addition to the griffin that we have been searching for. There is a legend written in the oldest of old volumes that tells of the four founders and the hereditary gifts that fathers bestowed to their heirs. Godric Gryffindor passed the ability to polymorph into a griffin. We now know that whatever the Last Alliance plans has something to do with the heirs.

"I want it known that from this day on, any Death Eater who flees from battle will be executed! Any wizards of the Last Alliance who are spotted on Death Eater land will be apprehended, questioned, and tortured before being put to death. Any Death Eater who disobeys this command will be flogged and sentenced for a month in the dungeons. This brings me to the next order of business; Benjamin Lestrange, you stood face to face with Severus Snape and allowed him to escape."

Benjamin glances up, his pale face drawn in defence. His eyes flicker with the memory of the interaction and the prospect of death. "The Last Alliance may be a few bloods short of an worthy army. Their battling techniques are less-than satisfactory but they do possess something none of us have--sheer dumb luck."

Lucius listens intently, nodding as Benjamin explained himself. "Yes, and what of the prisoner Ackerly and Nott were escorting back? Did you let Delacour and Snape take him as it's been rumoured, _Benni_?" Benjamin's childhood name comes awkwardly to Lucius's lips; he patronises Benjamin to speak it before fellow Death Eaters. Spite was always a Malfoy trait.

"I never thought the Weasley was important. He is just a prisoner."

At this, Percival Weasley snaps his head up.

Lucius glances over at Percy, an amused smile dancing across his lips. "Weasley, would you care to inform Mister Lestrange the importance of this prisoner, your brother?" he asks, knowing perfectly well that Percy would never think of acting on his offer.

"Why would we listen to a Weasley?" interjects Marcus, glaring at the Death Eater who is seated across from him. "Isn't it a bit accidental that it was his brother who was saved? Are we to think that he never had a hand in this? That he isn't working with the Last Alliance? Once a Weasley, always a Weasley." He folds his arms over his chest, a smug look of satisfaction upon his face that would even have made Draco envious.

"Remember that this Weasley betrayed everything his family ever believed in." Terence Higgs defends his best mate, his voice straining with pain. He yawns; dark violet bags hang beneath his baby blue eyes, and a freshly healed scar is marked over his right eye, dried blood still caked on. Terence slumps his shoulders and wishes for a warm bed to crawl into.

"I trust Weasley, Flint," Lucius replies, casting a fleeting, concerned look to Terence. "And that's all that truly matters. Remember, you serve me, not Weasley. You must answer to me, not Weasley. Like you, Weasley is a mere Death Eater."

Percy shifts uneasily in his seat. "He understands, Malfoy," he grumbles.

Lucius flashes Percy a superior smirk before turning a cold eye back onto his Death Eaters. "We've worked too hard to lose everything we've gained to a few spoiled wizards. This alliance is not going to do us in, that is a promise. We haven't lost all of our eyes at the Ministry. Granted, Miss Nefertari was the best agent we had working for our side, but there are wizards and witches under her who still remain faithful. We know that the International Ministry is holding a meeting with the Last Alliance to discuss terms of an alliance. Until we know what course of action they will be taking, we cannot act. This meeting is adjourned."

* * *

I have the next few chapters (the rest of Book I of Losing Faith) written and waiting for upload. There are seven more chapters until the Leader of the Last Alliance's identity is revealed, and until the Death Eaters and Last Alliance come face-to-face. Thanks to the readers who have reviewed, and those who have added this story to their favourites, C2s or alerts.


	35. Chapter Thirty Four : International

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Four : International Relations**

The International Ministry of Magic is never located in the same country for too long a time. In the past year, the Ministry building, in its entire splendour, has been materialised in the South of France, in the heart of wine country. But now, the building has uprooted itself and, beneath a cloak of invisibility, it floats across the skies to a new location--Northern Egypt, West of Cairo.

The rolling sand dunes and humid air are interrupted from their peaceful slumber from the piercing crack of the alliance's Apparation charm. Seven fervent wizards appear suddenly, their black robes noticeable against the browns of the desert. The robes the Last Alliance now wears are newly sewn and made from expensive velvet. The stitching is small and silver, and an emblem of a phoenix holding Excalibur in her claws is attached to the left lapel. Their hair is newly washed and properly styled; unlike the first few times they held audiences with the Ministry, they now look respectable.

"I . . . don't see it," Charlie Weasley states slowly, scanning his green eyes across the desert.

"Of course you don't," the commander replies, stifling a yawn. "The Ministry building is heavily cloaked. I'm surprised that you never knew that, Charlie. But of course, all other times we were here, we weren't exactly invited. Feels good, doesn't it? To be invited, I mean."

Igor Karkaroff shrugs and starts forward, his polished black boots sinking into the loose sand. "If we stand here dawdling, we're going to be late. That's not the first impression we wish to make."

"We've already made our first impressions, Karkaroff. Remember, they threw us out on our arses," Sirius Black replies, following in the footsteps that Karkaroff leaves across the barren desert.

The others remain silent, lost in the memory of their warm beds, and follow Karkaroff and Sirius, the commander bringing up the rear. They walk the desert, their robes billowing around them, sand collecting in the wrinkles of their clothing and in their hair. They travel for less than an hour before Karkaroff stops, quickly reaching for his wand with his left hand.

"Put that away, Igor!" orders the commander as he rushes to the front. He stops beside the white-haired wizard, extending an arm and pressing his palm against what seems to be an undetectable force field. He pushes against it, and his hand slips through.

The black-haired wizard glances back at his troop before disappearing past the barrier. Sirius follows him next, and immediately pokes his head back through the field. From the back, Remus Lupin sniggers at the sight of Sirius's floating, grinning head.

"Hey, hey! Check this out!" Sirius calls, bobbing his head forward. "I'm like Nearly Headless Nick! Bleedin' hell, I wonder if I could join the hunt." A disembodied hand reaches through the barrier, wraps its fingers around Sirius's short black hair, and yanks. "Ahhh!" screams Sirius as he disappears.

Muttering blasphemies and oaths of immaturity towards Sirius, Severus passes through the barrier into the territory of the Ministry of Magic. The others quickly follow, and soon the rolling sand dunes and humid air resume their peaceful slumbers.

The building of the Ministry is a glorious spectacle only to those who are viewing it for the first time. Made from sturdy red brick, the building stands more than fifteen stories high, and flags of the world's countries surround the massive roof in a slant towards the sky. The Ministry stands in the centre of four bio-domes--ice, rainforest, desert, and mountain. They bleed into each other and are populated with species known and unknown to man. Circular windows with red and white stained glass filter sunlight into the Ministry, and red stepping-stones lead to the vast entryway.

Seven pairs of eyes stare in awe at the building, and are only brought out of their awe when a silver bell rings from inside of the Ministry.

"They're waiting--we wouldn't want to be late," the commander mumbles, pushing himself forward and through the doors.

They enter into a wide, empty hallway with a fountain at the end and doors with golden plaques bordering the corridor. Walking through the hall and towards the busty mermaid fountain, a horde of witches and wizards zoom by on their way to important business, and a series of ten lifts comes into view. When the commander presses the button, the doors to one lift open with a click. An overly nice voice telling them to have a pleasant stay sounds from above.

The Last Alliance enter the lift and are rushed up to the top floor with the pressing of another button. The doors swoosh open, and two guards are waiting to escort them to the Summit Hall. Severus and Sirius stumble out of the lift, both woozy from the sudden jolt that brought them here in less than three seconds. Remus helps Fleur forward, and Karkaroff takes the lead next to their commander. Charlie walks behind them all, amazed that just a few days ago he was a prisoner, and now he's standing in the Ministry of Magic, attending a conference of the Ministers.

"This vay please," one guard speaks, his German accent heavy.

The Last Alliance are guided into a large marble chamber that is barren compared to the rest of the Ministry building. Around twenty Ministers from the major countries are already sitting around the oak table, patiently waiting the arrival of their guests.

"Welcome, dear friends!" The Minister of Canada spreads her arms wide in greeting.

"Why don't we skip the pleasantries and attend to the business at hand?" grumbles Karkaroff, glancing at the Ministers with unimpressed black eyes.

The commander throws Karkaroff a disapproving glance. "Mind your manners, Igor. We are guests of these people, although I do wish that they had come to their senses sooner," he says sardonically.

Several of the Ministers rush forward to shake hands with the arrivals while others offer them seats next to the Minister of Canada, who seems to be in charge of this meeting since the untimely demise of the International Minister, Tahirah Nefertari.

"First, we'd like to congratulate you on successfully infiltrating ze borders of Britain and liberating Camp Phi," the Canadian Minister starts once the commotion has ceased. "We apologise profusely for not contacting you sooner. Since ze death of ze International Minister, t'ings 'ave been very 'ectic 'round 'ere, Mister . . ." the Quebec-native witch trails off, searching for a well-awaited name.

Beside the Canadian Minister, a young, flaxen-haired witch records the proceedings of the meeting. She perks her head up in sudden interest as the older woman beside her asks a name of the commander of the Last Alliance.

"My name is known to those who need to know it, ma'am," the commander replies, and the flaxen-haired witch pouts, setting her faded emerald eyes back towards her parchment. "If you wish to address me, 'sir' will be fine. I must thank you for calling us here today."

"The pleasure is all ours, sir," replies a grey-haired wizard in crimson and azure robes with silver stars on the collar. "We've been discussing how to . . . go about this meeting as the topics are touchy ones. I'm sure you've heard about Miss Nefertari . . ."

Karkaroff draws his gaze towards his hands as his mind wanders to two silver Sickles in the folds of his prestigious black robes. He clears his throat of the wedged lump of remorse, pushing it back down into his stomach. But he still feels sick at the memory.

" . . . and we've taken a vote, and it's unanimous," the Minister of America finishes.

"What vote, and what is unanimous?" Severus growls, not offering his trust towards these people who decide what matters to dirty their hands with and which ones to totally ignore. It seems it's only because of the murder of Tahirah that the Ministers have decided to converse with the Last Alliance.

A willowy Minister with darker skin clasps her hands before her on the table. "We have decided to offer the position of International Minister to your commander here," she replies, her English flimsy at best.

The seven members of the Last Alliance sit, dumbfounded.

"You-you can't mean that!" Charlie exclaims, glancing from Minister to Minister.

The secretary looks up, rubbing her sore wrist. "I'm sorry, what is your name?" she asks, her voice cold and distant. "You're new here. With them, I mean."

Charlie studies the woman. "I'm Charlie Weasley," he replies.

She nods and goes back to writing.

"We do mean it," the Canadian Minister begins. "We have discussed it many times, and although there are still some of us who protest"--she gives pointed glares to a few other Ministers--"we offer you the position."

The commander nods, pressing his lips together in contemplation. After a moment, he replies, "It's a nice gesture, Miss, but I'm afraid I must decline. I have my own business to take care of without the worries of the world on my shoulders. Besides, how do we know we can truly trust you? Just months ago you were ready to throw us out on our arses. If I remember correctly, you did."

"Times, zey 'ave changed," the French Minister replies.

"And you change alliances as much as your robes?" Severus snaps, the corners of his lips twitching in anger. "One day you want to help us, and the next you don't. You have made no effort to gain our trust, yet you invite us in here and expect us to dance a little jig and thank you for your help? It seems that without your help, we are doing fine on our own." A yielding hand belonging to Karkaroff lands on Severus's shoulder, silencing his words.

A tall and fine-boned Minister with the flag of Russia sewn on his lapel speaks before the short-tempered American Minister can respond. "You have no reason to trust us, sirs."

"He is right, you 'ave no reason to trust us," the Canadian responds politely. "But shall we try to start now? We 'ave Britain's best interests in mind, as you do."

Severus's eyebrows quirk as his mouth does. "Since when? Since we launched an attack and were successful? Since we have nearly succeeded in the first step of our plans? You have only decided to help us because we proved we weren't the incompetent wizards you first labelled us to be. But now, who says that we truly need your help?"

"Snape, bite your tongue!" the commander barks.

"What is your plan?" the secretary asks abruptly, not looking up from her recording.

"Miss Raventon! Mind your manners. These people are important guests, and you are not permitted to speak to them with such intolerance!" the American Minister reprimands the secretary. She blushes violently, mumbling an insincere apology. "You must forgive her, she's new," he directs to the Last Alliance.

"No apology is needed, it's a free question to ask," Remus replies, feeling a twang of pity for Miss Raventon. He studies her intently; her Nordic facial features and light blonde hair are familiar, but he can't place from where. The American frowns and shifts in his non-cushioned seat as Remus continues. "If our commander allows it, we can tell you our plan of action."

No one speaks, but all eyes land on the commander. His brows crease in thought, taking into consideration Severus's words, which they all realise are true. They don't know these people, and it has been rumoured that Death Eaters may have infiltrated the Ministries and neighbouring countries.

"I believe we still have other matters to attend to," the commander declares.

The dark-skinned Minister folds her arms below her breasts, her dark hair flowing down her shoulders. "Such as?" she asks in Spanish, and then again in English.

The commander leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You have offered to help us, but can we freely accept that help knowing that we cannot fully trust the Ministers of other countries? Of course, this decision is entirely mine, and if I make the wrong one, I will have to live with it. I'm getting tired of two things: dying and making decisions that result in more deaths. So this is what will happen:

"We will keep you updated in our efforts, but we doubt we will be launching another attack. We set out to gather the heirs of Hogwarts as well as the heir of Merlin and we have done just that--we only need one more. We hope to cause as little bloodshed as possible. We refuse to kill our fellow wizards, for there's been too much of that already. Our plans have changed since you saw us last, and we have others on our side. The seed was planted, and it has blossomed into a lovely tree.

"The giants are now our allies and wait for our command. We have tapped into the powers of the Ancient Magicks and have even uncovered a few pages of history otherwise forgotten. We even have a Death Eater on our side and many prisoners doing what they can to help.

"We have gotten along just fine without you. You who might have Death Eater spies in your Ministries. You who might have a Death Eater spy in this room. And because of this, we cannot accept your offer."


	36. Chapter Thirty Five : Celebrations

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Five : Celebrations**

"A third Quidditch match?" Lucius Malfoy repeats with a confident voice as he raises his eyebrows with stun, surveying Gene Avery with a critical ice-blue eye. He reclines in his chair, his right hand grasping his snake-staff and fingers running along the smooth silver of the long tongue. "Avery, I'm surprised that you would ever suggest such a thing."

Gene leans forward in his seat, gripping his hands together. "Why is that, Sir?"

Deep frown lines appear over Lucius's eyebrows and mouth as his face hardens to stone. "Our last game never did end on a satisfactory note," Lucius readily reminds Gene, recalling the scene with bitter nostalgia and much abhorrence. "If I remember correctly, a griffin interrupted. A griffin that was permitted to escape because of the incompetence of a few Death Eaters!" His staff bangs on the stone floor, causing Gene to blink as the sound ricochets through the office.

"Maybe the idea of a game isn't confounded. Is there a better way to prove to the Last Alliance that you are confident in rule?" Gene asks.

Lucius remains silent, his magnificent black robes shuffling as he turns in his seat and rests his right leg over his left knee. "Will everything be prepared by you?" he asks eventually, his cold eyes pointedly staring at the stacks of parchment on his oak desk and eagle quill he has magicked to sign his signature upon them.

Gene simply nods. "I've already taken the necessary steps," he explains as he passes Lucius a few sheaves of parchment. "I've contacted the four house captains, and they were willing to gather their teams. Lucrece Lestrange has offered once again to referee and to oversee the renovations to the Pitch and balls."

Lucius smirks, amused. "You expected that I would allow this, did you not, Avery?" Taking the papers, he tosses them on top of the always-growing pile on his desk, the quill groaning as he does.

"It is within your graciousness, Sir." Gene inclines his head into a small bow.

A tide of joy washes over Lucius as an idea comes to form in his mind, the gears working together to cast despair upon the lowly prisoners. To remind them of their place in this world and who died to place them there. "Yes, it is, isn't it. We will have this Quidditch game on July 31, in honour of our victory two years ago!

"Now get out, this conversation bores me."

**-**

The Shadow Moon Congregation Hall of the ancient castle is made from polished obsidian stone. Seven claw-like torchbearers line the black walls, the fires casting shadows that resemble monsters about the chamber. One table enhances the meeting hall--long, and made of black birch, it rests impressively in the core, and an assembly of thirty Death Eaters march in and consecutively sit around her; those of superior rank occupy that nearest the massive throne seat of Lucius's.

Five minutes pass without their leader before the black metal doors to the hall open with an echoing bang, and in strides Lucius Malfoy. He glances over his assembled Death Eaters, then he stops and shakes the hands of those he has known for many years before taking his seat at the front. Dark circles encompass his eyes, and crow's feet dabble at the corners; his white-blond hair is pulled back tightly and tied into place with a black ribbon. Clearing his throat, he commands the undivided attention of his faction; he changes his mind and stands. "As we grow stronger, our enemies lessen!

"Three assemblies set forth yesterday from the Northern Tower, each travelling the three directions. The first, Hades-Zero, will arrive in the Dwarven Mountains in the early morning. Pluto-Five awaits their minotaur guide by the moonlight. Loki-Three drinks with the new allies we have found in the trolls! If the talks proceed as hoped, we shall have allies in both the minotaur and dwarf!

"The assassination of Tahirah Nefertari has caused the Ministry to act quickly and most profoundly. We know that, because of Miss Raventon, the Last Alliance has refused an ally with the Ministry. And though this proves to be quite the obstacle in our path, an efficient leap over it may be found--we shall send Death Eaters into our neighbouring countries of France, Germany, Italy, Spain and Norway for simple, two week surveillance missions.

"While the lord of the Last Alliance is wise and brave--"

Twig Raventon's head slants sharply towards Lucius. "How can you say that?"

Lucius glares, shifting papers as he quickly realises his mistake. "You must never underestimate your enemy, Raventon. It is one thing to be a fool leading an army to victory and another to be a wise man leading them to death. Their commander is indeed intelligent and valiant, but it does take more than that to win a war.

"Now, getting to matters of a separate note: there will be a third Quidditch match July 31--the anniversary of our enemies' downfall!"


	37. Chapter Thirty Six : Repeated Sacrifices

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Six : Repeated Sacrifices**

Percival Odysseus Weasley has not always been a Death Eater.

He never dreamt about watching his family suffer and his lover decay before his eyes. He's never been able to forgive the past for the cruelties of fate; he was never the most thought-about Weasley brother. Percy has watched his friends turn to ash at the mercy of his wand, but he has also saved one from Hades's cold clutches.

But through all of his trails, through all of his sacrifices, one thing has held constant--the velvet black robes. To those who couldn't believe in the power of the true bloods, death only awaited them at the black robes. Those who donned the robes of the Death Eaters are the walking embodiments of death. Anything they touch shrivels and dies.

Percy was raised with this impression, this anti-Death Eater system. He was taught, at a very young age, that Death Eaters were not people, they were pawns moulded by their fascist dictator for his purposes alone: the eradication of all who weren't pure, and world domination. He sought power, and as history had taught, power corrupts. Lord Voldemort was evil; it was as simple as that. All through Hogwarts, Percy swore by this and even reinforced it.

But with growing power, Lord Voldemort's vision of a perfect world was compromised--Mudbloods were allowed to enter the prestigious ranks of Death Eaters, and wizards who would otherwise be thought of as disgraces joined as well. But this compromise was not based on heart; rather, Voldemort sought absolute power, and to achieve this, he realised he'd need an army. Let them join! he thought. I will kill them once they no longer are of use to me.

Percy saw wizards who everyone believed would be Death Eaters save a baby girl. He saw a Hufflepuff witch with the Dark Mark. For the first time, Percy saw hypocrisy. He saw reality. He watched as his ideals crumbled like a pillar of salt holding up the great castle he once found comfort in.

Percy eventually came to realise that not all wizards and witches join Voldemort for a chance at power, as everyone so easily thought. Some joined because they loved, not because they couldn't. They joined because they thought that, by sacrificing their souls, they could save their children's, their wife's or husband's.

Some joined to save people they loved.

Percy sacrificed everything he had striven for most of his life for his family and Penelope. The scarlet Ministry robes he wore lost value, and he secretly exchanged them for the black, cold ones of the Death Eaters. Love is the greatest thing known to man, Percy has always believed. And whether or not his actions to protect his loved ones were radical and selfish, he saved them nonetheless.

Out of all the jumbles of memories Percy has of his progression to the power he now wields, only one thing sticks out vividly in his mind. Inane, like a neon light promoting seven topless strippers: "_**Evil is just sexier than good, always has been**_**." **And it was signed, Terence Higgs.

It was Terence who arrived at The Burrow on a Sunday afternoon, a Concealment Charm cast over his forearm. The first time Terence rolled back his sleeve and reversed the charm, Percy blacked out, only to come to with the vibrant memory of the scar burnt deep into his friend's arm. Lying in his room with no idea of how he got there, Percy noticed a crumbled parchment resting upon his bed. The message was the same as the one Terence had left in his yearbook, only this one had a hastily written postscript: **My cousin took the Dark Mark to save his mother and to avenge his murdered father. I became a Death Eater because I don't want to kill my friends. In times of war, we must take a step back and decide what's really important to us. Question who we are. What we want to become. **

The second time Terence showed him the Dark Mark, Percy had one to match.

And Penelope kept bawling into her blue satin pillow as Percy rolled down the sleeve of his Ministry robes and the sickly tattoo with the snake tongue disappeared. Percy can't remember why he showed her the black skull; maybe a part of him hoped that she'd understand. Maybe another part hoped that she'd turn him in.

But she did no such thing.

After she cried, she dried her tears and never cried again. Not even when she knelt over the lifeless body of her little sister, Iphthime, removing the blonde hair from her green eyes to reveal a face with no marring.

She was hit with a killing curse that came from Terence's wand.

Penelope became an emotional zombie as Terence and Percy arrived to survey the deceased, the fallen heroes. She placed two golden galleons over Iphthime's painted eyes and simply walked away. Percy stumbled across her several days later as the Muggles, Mudbloods, and Muggle-lovers were being herded into captivity like a lot of cattle. And he took his love back to the castle where her tongue remained cut for months.

Percy watched alongside Terence as twins Twig and Leaf Raventon roasted marshmallows in the fire he started to The Burrow, to his former life. But earlier that afternoon, he had removed everything of his former life from the home--just a few old volumes about magic, Hermes, and the makeshift yearbook Alexei Smirnov created.

He hasn't touched his yearbook since he shoved it between two Latin tomes on his barrister bookcase. So when he finds himself gazing at its pages three months into the 2001-year, he's knocked for six with the rush of unwanted nostalgia. Still, he can't help but crack the smile that was once on his face as he prowled the halls of Hogwarts when he comes across the two-page spread of the seventh years of 1994.

**Marcus Flint chases Oliver Wood, his ill-gotten Nimbus 2001 in hand, trampling over Terence Higgs as they rush through his photo. **

Percy was often amused with the immature rivalry between the two Quidditch captains, although he never would admit it, and he often deducted points from both houses for their behaviour. Conflict is healthy, someone once told him, it keeps you ambitious. It doesn't matter that he never believed him then, and he doesn't believe him now. Percy can't imagine that the fights, both physical and verbal, between Marcus and Oliver were ever healthy. To him, conflict was a waste of time.

**Rae Landon hides in Adrian Pucey's photo while Adrian sketches curtains around them, pulling them closed.**

Percy never fancied the two Slytherins, not since Rae paid random students to dunk his head into a toilet bowl. Adrian was among those paid for that ritualistic service. And that's what everything the female Slytherin did to him was--a ritual. She often cast stones to decide what form of punishment to inflict upon him and many others, the sixteenth of every month. And once Adrian and Rae began seeing each other, everything stopped. But Percy is strong in hiding his emotions; he never forgave, and he never forgot. Perhaps that's why he detests them so. Perhaps that's why he convinced Terence to tell Marcus about Rae's adultery.

**Penelope Clearwater's nose is stuck in her book, _Homer's Odyssey_. **

That book once belonged to her father, Percy recalls. A priceless family heirloom passed to Penelope on the day she her father died. Percy can't count the number of times she has read it. She's never tired of the tale, nor had Iphthime.

Then there are others, ones that Percy can only place a name to because their names are scripted below their photos. Hufflepuff Eric Elliot, Ravenclaw Blanche Defresne, and Hufflepuff Alexei Smirnov.

Percy only remembers Alexei as one of the three candidates for Head Boy. The other was Terence. But it was Percy's marks that beat out those of the other two, and Percy became Head Boy, following in his older brother's footsteps. He never seemed to get out of those footsteps, actually.

Not until fate decided otherwise.

Percy gently closes the yearbook with a wistful sigh, wishing he could go back to a time where everything seemed so much simpler. With a deep-throated grunt, he drags himself to his feet, flopping down before a small oak desk in the corner of his chambers. He pulls open a drawer, shuffling through a few sheaves of papers to withdraw one and an eagle quill. Dipping the quill into a nearly dried ink well, he begins his letter:

_Sir Nicholas Smirnov_

_Head of Camp Delta_,

_By order of Percival Wealsey, the lady Penelope Clearwater is to be escorted back to the castle by two of your most regarded subordinates. I will be awaiting their arrival by the front gates in three hours. _

Sincerely,

_  
Percival Weasley_

Blowing the ink dry, Percy then folds the parchment and places it into an off-white envelope, sealing it with a symbol of a snake devouring a griffin. When he lets the impatient Hermes free of his cage, the owl flies around the chamber several times, stretching his wings, before landing on the redhead's shoulder. Reluctantly, Hermes takes the letter with his beak and dashes out the circular window after the instructions from his master.

-

For most of Nicholas Smirnov's life, he has felt as though he's driving in the dark. In his waking life, he rises every morning to lay black robes over his grave of a body, wondering what went wrong. When did he become a Death Eater?

Before or after they won the war?

His youngest son, Alexei, sought the Death Eaters in a reverie, holding the Dark Lord beneath a halo of golden light, a vigilante to help him into the moonlight of an otherwise dark world.

Turn to darkness to vanquish a deeper darkness inside of yourself.

For Alexei, it worked.

And if it made his son smile and laugh again, Nicholas allowed it.

Nicholas leans forward in his seat, his back cracking stridently, echoing through the humble office. Reaching for his medium-tipped quill, he's about to sign the remaining duty rosters when the familiar soft tapping of an owl's beak is heard upon his metal-barred window. Drawing his azure eyes towards the screech owl, he exhales with relief as he realises it's not one of Malfoy's dreaded creatures. With an exhausted glance over his shoulder, he gently glides his chair back towards the noise, ushering in the bird through the open window.

Hermes drops the letter into Nicholas's outstretched hand and flies back through the window with a _swoosh_.

Nicholas carefully opens the envelope and reads the letter softly to the office as though the filing cabinet and his orderly desk need to hear the news. Nodding to himself, he tosses letter and all into the half-full rubbish bin next to him before exiting his sparsely-decorated office with a new meaning in his stride.

"Raventon, Pucey!" Nicholas begins as he passes through the door.

Twig Raventon and Adrian Pucey straighten their backs, their hands finding their wands at their hips. Muffling a yawn, Twig stares at the senior officer, wondering when he started to leave his office at three in the afternoon. Both Death Eaters salute, awaiting their superior to do the same.

But Nicholas walks brusquely by them, glancing over his shoulder as he speaks. "Miss Clearwater is to be escorted back to the castle. You will find her staying with Mister Davies on the south side, in Building Chi." And with that, Nicholas rounds the corner, leaving the Delta Headquarters well before nightfall for the first time in six months.

So maybe this Death Eater business isn't all a stick in the arse, Nicholas reconsiders as he imagines the looks on his families' faces at his early arrival; there is immense pleasure in this position of authority.

-

Dirty wafts of sunlight drift into Roger Davies's home, sleeping over the splintered floorboards and translucent through ratty blue curtains that hide them from the harsh conditions of the outside world. Roger paces the lengths of his living room in a boredom, his cobalt-coloured eyes plastered to Penelope Clearwater and her three-week-old daughter as they rock back and forth in the antique rocking chair. The once peaceful and orderly home of Roger and Penelope is no longer that--a cardboard crib sits in the corner of the living room, adjacent to the only heat source in the house, the brick fireplace. Rayne-Flynn Clearwater sleeps with a blue drape stained with the memories of blood and death. A blue-gold throw rug is the rubbish bin for many bottles, diapers, talcum powder, and salve. If Roger and Penelope had a nightstand, that is where the baby's things would be. But they must make do with what they have, what was generously provided by Madame Greingrass after the baby's birth.

"She shouldn't have to live like this," Penelope murmurs, crestfallen. "She deserves so much more, Roger. Clean clothes, a real crib. She shouldn't be starving because I wish to hide her from Percy. She should be the one being pampered in the castle. House-elves should be waiting on her hand and foot."

Penelope glances towards Rayne and offers her daughter a regretful smile that sends poisoned-tipped arrows through her heart. Removing a blonde curl from her bloodshot, melancholy eyes, Penelope detaches the sleeping baby from her breast, gently patting Rayne on the back to get a burp. The baby spits up on Penelope's shoulder, following it with a burp. She falls back asleep in the safety of her mother's arms, blissfully unaware of her surroundings.

Roger's spine tingles with chills as he hears a sense of remorse in her voice, but he chooses to ignore it. It's better this way, he believes. To have Rayne grow up away from the rot and decay of those her father chooses to surround himself with. "She's not a Death Eater, Penny, please don't make her live like one. I'd rather have Rayne be cold and hungry than profit from our imprisonment."

"_You'd _rather have?" snaps Penelope, her anger rising as she rises to place Rayne inside her crib, covering the shaking baby with a heavy quilt. "You are not her father, Roger! And have you forgotten that I've lived like a Death Eater? What right do you have to judge him?"

Roger frowns and runs his hand through his charcoal hair, wisely choosing his next words. "I don't mean to sound judgemental, but where is her father, Penny?" he calmly asks as though it was Percy who turned his back on them. But in a way, he did.

A wistful sigh escapes Penelope's lips and she blinks her eyes towards Rayne-Flynn. "I'm not ready for Percy's reaction, Rog. He's changed. He wants to be thanked for what he's done for me, for what he sacrificed for his family. But how can we? Must we thank someone for joining the Death Eaters? Protecting us by sacrificing their soul? Isn't it wrong? But where would we be today? There is a difference between right and wrong, but maybe we should be looking at what would be better rather than worse . . ."

Roger wraps his hand around Penelope's thin wrist and pulls her into a tight embrace, which she gratefully accepts. "Don't try to think about what might have been. It's the past; the past doesn't matter because we can't change our mistakes. We can only learn from them to change our destinies, our future." He runs his hand over her tangled curls, kissing his best friend on the forehead, hoping that she'll find some comfort in the act.

Penelope stifles a cry and wipes her eyes with the torn sleeve of her blue robes. "I want to tell him, Roger," she whispers. "About the Last Alliance, about Rayne, about everything. He may be a Death Eater, but he's still a Weasley. There's still good left in him." She relaxes in Roger's strong arms, resting her head against his chest, sniffling.

"But there might not be. You could tell him all you know, and he might tell Malfoy. He may be a Weasley, but he's also a Death Eater. Who are we to draw that fine line between good and evil, and decide where Percy stands?"

"He wouldn't do that to us!" Penelope cries, tears swelling in her eyes. "He wouldn't."

Roger pushes her away to an arm's length, keeping his hands tight on her shoulders. "Bloody hell, Penelope!" he screams, shaking her slightly, as if his words aren't enough. "If Percy goes to Malfoy, we all die! Don't you understand that? You are strong, Penny. The strongest woman I've ever known. You can handle this, because soon, you won't have to anymore. Soon we will be in Marseilles! We just have to wait for the Last Alliance because without them, we are nowhere! We're just slaves. And you are just some Death Eater's whore!"

Penelope jerks herself from Roger's grasp, wrapping her arms around her body. She sniffles again, swallows the lump in the back of her throat, and remains silent. Her cheeks blush with embarrassment and anger, and for a short moment, she feels as though all her friends have left her. "Okay, Roger. I won't tell him," she whispers, her eyes on the dusty floor, hiding her shame.

"You'll be better for it, Penny. You'll see."

-

The darkly paved streets of Camp Delta echo the combat boots of two Death Eaters, their black robes billowing around their ankles as they walk slowly towards the south side. The mid-June sun shines cold rays through grey clouds, and the rumblings of thunder can be heard off in the distance. The two walk in a silence that Twig greatly prefers, and he cringes when Adrian chooses to break that silence.

"So tell me . . . what's it like?" Adrian uncertainly questions. With a lethargic sigh, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes and gives his Death Eater companion a sidelong glance, waiting for an answer.

Twig smirks in simple amusement, keeping his jade-green eyes along the rows of ramshackle buildings spotting the street. "What's what like?" he casually replies, the corners of his eyes smouldering with a deep fire.

Adrian's ice-blue eyes gaze at the camp unfolding before him, taking in the streets paved with blood and the occasional prisoner who has the audacity to peek outside through a tightly closed shutter. "Being a"--he lowers his voice to a discreet whisper--"vampyr."

Twig's face spasms with irritation. "Why?" he demands. "Would you like to be one as well?" He raises his crimson lip, flashing Adrian dull, blood-stained fangs.

Adrian's feet stop moving before his mind comprehends Twig's words.

The absent echo of boots against cement causes Twig to pause with a wicked smirk. He twists on his heels, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips as he notices Adrian visibly pale--his skin now much paler than his own.

"Umm . . . no. No, thank you," Adrian squeaks, his eyes locked on Twig's fangs.

Twig laughs maliciously at Adrian's stupidity. "You're bloody naïve, Pussy," he begins to lecture, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I couldn't change you even if I wanted to! How bloody ignorant are you?"

Adrian's eyebrows raise in confusion. "What are you? A vampire with a soul?"

Twig snorts, his contempt for Adrian strengthened by the ignorance of the wizarding world. "You read too many books, Pucey. Being a vampire has nothing to do with wooden stakes, blessed holy water, and blonde slayers. You've been watching too much _Buffy_, bloody yanks," he snaps, taking a long moment to spread his arms to welcome in the sunlight. "Can you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"The sunlight." His eyes flash open, bright with laughter. "Help me! Help me! I'm on fire!" he jokes, then pauses as Adrian blinks in reoccurring bewilderment. Twig sighs, massages the crook of his nose, and tiredly sighs again. "We don't combust, Pucey. So, if you're looking to roast some marshmallows, find another bonfire. I'm off limits," he drones.

Adrian slowly nods, his mind spinning with vampire lore, separating fact from fiction, truth from legend. They were taught shortly about vampires in Hogwarts, but nothing too structural--Professor Quirrel met his untimely demise before he finished the chapter, and like hell Lockhart continued it. "When were you bitten?" he eventually asks, hoping that he doesn't further embarrass himself.

"I wasn't," Twig replies curtly.

"Well, then how did . . ." he stops, his anger increasing as his confusion leaps.

"Joss may very well be a genius, but he knows naught about vampires. The bloke has some blonde bit running around shoving stakes into our hearts, and he has faith that that would do us in," he scoffs, shaking his head. "No one sired me, I was born a vampire. Just like Higgs was born a werewolf. Just like you were born a human. We're pure blooded, just like the merfolk and the mother-fucking trolls, like the veela and goblins. We've been around since Eve took that first bite of that forbidden red apple, maybe even the woman before."

Adrian nods, wondering who in the bloody hell Joss and Eve's predecessor were.

"But enough about me," Twig quickly changes the subject, content now that he shoved Adrian into his place. His slips his hand into the folds of his heavy over-robes and withdraws a silver flask. "Did you hear? Marcus Flint is going to be a father." He snickers as he hefts the flask to his mouth, chugging deeply from it. He abruptly stops, runs his red tongue over the blood on his lips, and mumbles regretfully, "Forgot the vodka."

"Yeah," Adrian murmurs, trying to forget the whole conversation. He heaves his hands into his pockets, and his dark, clouded eyes connect with the ground as his thoughts drift away to heirs and brunette women.

"I hope trolls don't tenderise their young before they eat them," Twig derides as they leave the road and approaches the building of the Davies family. Wrapping his hand around the broken, brass knocker, Twig raps thrice, entering uninvited into the home on the third knock.

Penelope and Roger spin around, their eyes locking with those of the Death Eaters.

Roger raises his eyebrows in question, folding his arms over his chest. "Sorry, didn't order any Death Eaters today," he says dryly as he carefully steps in front of Penelope and Rayne's cardboard crib before the hearth.

Twig takes an authoritative step towards Roger, glaring down at the Mudbloods with unforgiving eyes. "Compliments of Weasley," he reports as the door behind them glides closed.

Immediately, Twig winces at his new surroundings--the dusty stench of mould fills his nostrils with each breath; everything that he lays his green eyes upon is dying, or has died long ago and deserves to be buried with rites. This home symbolises everything that Twig has tried to avoid in his life--poverty, captivity, and mortality, each infected with the strong stench of disease.

"We're here to escort the wench back to the castle," he says carefully, his eyes raping the room, his nose sniffing for that scent that doesn't seem to belong here--that small scent of life covered by death.

"Her name is Penelope!" Roger snaps back, his lips pursed in suppressed fury.

Twig grins; his tongue runs over his fangs as he stares at Penelope, inwardly smirking at her blonde, frizzy hair, wondering when it was last washed. "Yes. Mudblood. Or would you prefer Weasley's _whore_, as opposed to wench?" he asks her, pausing when he now tastes that scent, like newly pressed daisies. He glances around the room once more, searching for what, he does not know.

Roger steps forward in a menacing manor, his fists flexing as Penelope rests a yielding hand upon his forearm. "If you hit him, he's won," Penelope whispers, and Roger reluctantly steps down, knowing that she's right and hating it. She turns to the Death Eaters. "What is your business? If it's to retrieve me, tell Percy to come hims--"

She's suddenly silenced by Twig's wave of silence. Twig bodily pulls Penelope towards the rocking chair and pushes her into it, and Roger blinks incredulously, wondering how Twig could move in the blink of an eye, and what exactly is going on. Twig notices Roger starting towards him with balled fists, ready to defend Penelope.

"One move and I'll kill your brat," Twig warns Roger, his wand aimed at Rayne.

Roger stands still, blood draining from his face as he stares at Rayne sleeping soundly in her crib hidden in the shadows beside the mantle, and then to Penelope. "She's not mine," Roger whispers beneath his breath as Twig approaches the crib, carefully taking the baby in his arms.

Adrian frowns as he ushers them through the door, wondering how Twig knew.

The lake of Hogwarts is stained with the blood of the innocent. It glistens with crimson tides, the thick water rushing over blue merfolk and gray octopi. Soft murmurs are heard from within the water's depths, but Percy doesn't wish to consider what souls are trapped beneath. He paces anxiously along the shoreline, the water lapping up against his black boots as he over excessively clears this throat, glancing around. His stomach swims with the waters, rushing from side to side, to his chest and threatening to escape his mouth. He clears his throat again and coughs.

How long has he been waiting, now? Ten months? Ten months since he last saw his beloved Penelope, and Percy is starting to reconsider his promise to her. She belongs at the castle. Safe from the harshness of reality. Safe from the Death Eaters. Safe--so he doesn't have to worry about her.

In the red lake, a wine-finned mermaid leaps elegantly from the water. Beads of water run through her hair and onto her breasts as her brother joins her. Percy's haunted eyes stare in amazement at the exquisite creatures, and a soft song fills his ears as he takes a step towards the lake's deadly waters.

It's the loud crack of the Apparation Charm that jolts Percy from his reverie.

"What took you blokes so long?" Percy hollers as he approaches them in a few long strides, his fists clenched and the beautiful merfolk forgotten. Though he regards Twig and Adrian with a lofty expression, his face falls as he notices the baby girl in Twig's arms. Quickly, his well-rehearsed posture of authority diminishes as he stares at Penelope and Roger, his face reddening with anger for the moment.

Twig promptly answers Percy's question, "Davies proved to be quite the obstruction, leech."

Percy nods dumbly and adjusts his black horn-rimmed glasses before they slide completely from his nose. His mouth gapes open as Twig returns Rayne to Roger, fuelling Percy's growing fire even more so.

"Leave!" Percy finally finds his voice, causing Roger and Penelope to jump.

Twig clears his throat and grins, flashing his fangs to the shaking Roger. "Go easy on them, leech," he replies thoughtlessly, his hand landing on Percy's shoulder as he stares up at one of the few Death Eaters who is taller than himself.

"Sod off," Percy advises through grinding teeth, his right hand searching inside of his black over-robes for his wand. In a smooth movement that parallels the merfolk earlier, he points his wand towards Twig, mouthing the word "_Avada _. . ." as the only warning.

Twig sighs and slumps his shoulders. "C'mon, Pussy. Show's over," he drones.

And the two wizards who really _want _to be there, Apparate away.

Penelope shifts uneasily beneath Percy's piercing gaze. "Percy?"


	38. Chapter Thirty Seven : Secrets

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven : Secrets**

"Percy!" Penelope repeats uneasily.

Percy's eyes focus on Roger and the baby he cradles in his arms.

"She's not Roger's," Penelope answers before Percy proposes the question. She steps forward to place a shaking, but comforting hand over Percy's forearm. She feels him flinch beneath his over-robes, assisting in the lowering of his wand. "I wanted to tell you . . . " She hangs her head.

Percy's jaw collides with the ground, the revelations of her words still echoing in his ears. He stares vacantly at nothing, his thoughts incoherent and jumbled. "Whose kid is that?" he questions, his moment of stupidity almost over.

Penelope smacks her hand to her forehead, mumbling beneath her breath, "idiot." With a stinging sensation, she realises her hand didn't leave her forehead, and she lets it fall to her side, locking her eyes with Percy's. With her mouth moving before the gears in her mind start spinning, she let's slip everything.

"Her name's Rayne-Flynn. . . . The Last Alliance has eyes in Hogwarts and all over Britain. . . . Charlie's with them . . . He proposed to Fleur. . . . Me and Roger have been helping them, and your family too . . . Ron and Hermione are getting married in a few weeks . . . They are collecting the descendants of the founders. . . . Rayne has her father's eyes . . . I didn't tell you to protect her . . ."

Roger's eyes widen with panic, the realisation that his life will be forfeit. "Penelope!" he shouts.

About the time that Penelope runs out of words, the gears in her mind start working. She turns to be greeted with the horror-stricken face of Roger. "What!?"

Percy raises his hand for silence, forgetting the Ravenclaws before him aren't Death Eaters. "Oi," he bellows then both to silence. "Wait. Let me get this straight. Who's Rayne? Why are Ron and Hermione concerned with founders? What are founders? Who're you protecting? Charlie's with the Last what-now? And how does it this all concern you?"

Penelope's cheeks burn with mortification, as she comprehends the words that left her mouth. With a deep breath, she explains the past ten months to her love.

---

A nightmare born from rock, soil and death weaves its way through the walls of the castle. Time-washed blood tarnishes the stone, a reverence to fallen Death Eater heroes who are honoured with war songs and fire whisky. The corridors leading downwards into the cold, distant dungeons are dimly lit with a few candelabras; the stench of mould is overpowering, and the ghostly nightmare enters through an iron wrought door, its emerald eyes flashing at the scene unfolding before him.

Manacles decorate the northern wall of the chamber, hanging three feet above the ground. They hold the rotting, skeletal remains of Graham Pritchard--former Death Eater and disgrace in Marcus Flint's eyes. The tattered black robes hang limply from the remains. White shards of bone peek their way through the putrid flesh. Emerald eyes are forced open--their eyelids eaten away by aged maggots.

The nightmare that the ghost comes to a stop in is his own. With a sound resembling a sigh, the ghost of Graham rejoins what little is left of his body. His eyes flash around the room.

An empty flask of fire whisky is discarded next to the fireplace. Charcoal stains embellish the walls surrounding the mantle; the flames unsteadily flick around the wood that never consumes. An army-styled bed that Marcus Flint rarely sleeps in is against the eastern wall, adjacent to the fireplace that does nothing to warm the forever-chilled room. Dried blood stains the walls and floor; it grows to be denser beneath the manacles and medieval, gore-encrusted weapons that adorn the walls.

The emerald eyes of the skeletal remains gleam towards two humans.

Rae Landon rises from her knees and angles herself away from Marcus, who grins toothily as he buttons his black robes.

"You're off the team," Marcus says after several seconds.

"What?" Rae exclaims, spinning around to defiantly stare Marcus in the face, her dull brown hair whipping across her cheeks.

Marcus captures Rae's eyes with his. "Must I repeat myself?"

"No. I heard you," Rae says in a biting voice. She avoids Marcus's eyes as she drags her own gaze towards the stone of the walls and downward to a black satchel she had with her when Marcus stopped her in the corridors. "Are you daft? Where are you going to find another Beater as good as I am this close to the match?"

Marcus folds his arms over his chest, shaking thick black hair from his cold eyes with a tilt of his head. "We can manage with just one," he reinforces, raising his upper lip in disgust at the woman he chooses to take to his bed. "I have to make sure that you don't make anymore mistakes. Some just can't be fixed!"

Rae flexes her fists and casts her eyes, which are fiery with hatred, towards the ground. She inhales deeply, slowly exhaling. "I thought we had a deal," she growls.

"You thought wrong," Marcus snarls.

Rae's eyes narrow into thin slits. "Who'd you find to replace me?"

"Alexei Smirnov."

Rae brusquely raises her head. "He's not Slytherin!"

"He's a Death Eater."

A sudden breath escapes Rae's lips as she folds her arms. She glances around the room, her mouth twisted as she chews the inside of her lip. "He's inexperienced and Hufflepuff, probably guaranteed to fall from his broom. So what's this really about, Marcus? The child growing inside of me? You're just fucking angry 'cause that tight leash you fancy keeping me on has broke, ain't th--"

Before the next words could form and exit her mouth, Marcus is facing her. A thick growl emerges from Marcus's throat as he strikes out at her with the back of his right hand. "Keep yer fuckin' mouth shut, whore!" he bellows, raising his hand and stepping forward for another blow.

Rae staggers back a step, her cheek and jaw hammering with crimson pain. "It's always been about power and control with you!" Rae rambles, her eyes cautiously watching Marcus's raised hand.

Marcus's upper lip twitches with hatred as he advances upon her again, his eyes the embodiment of an intense fire of adrenaline. With a swift motion, Marcus balls his fist, raises and releases.

He belts Rae in the abdomen.

He sends her screaming, crashing into a mirror. Rae bows beneath an array of shattering glass. Her shaking hands find and clench her stomach.

"Does the phrase, 'till death do us part', have meaning to you?" Marcus grumbles between heavy breathes as he approaches her, his black combat boots crunching the glass in a ringing melody of violence.

"You can't kill me," Rae whispers as she staggers to her feet.

Marcus stares down at her with unparallel contempt, thick black strands framing his pallid, twisted features. "Stay on your knees, Rae. That's where a good bitch belongs," he commands in a cool tone, ready to exercise his power with another fist if she disobeyed.

Rae remains kneeling. Her left hand seizes a slim shard of glass, her knuckles fade white, only to be coloured by blood seeping through them.

"D'you wanna see how long I'd beat you before the fuckin' brat inside you dies, Rae?" Marcus calmly asks as he stares with a flicker of amusement at Rae's left hand.

The ghost of Graham slowly remerges from his rotting body.

With a deep breath, Rae dives towards Marcus.

Marcus laughs and grabs Rae's wrist. He snaps it back.

Echoes of Rae's screaming cries and the splitting of bones fill the chamber.

The ghost resumes his own nightmare, leaving Rae to hers; he floats through the doors of Marcus's chambers, continuing the journey around the castle he's trapped to make for an eternity, always returning to the remains Marcus had shackled and cursed.

"I love it when you scream," Marcus murmurs and Rae whimpers fade, her tears fall silently. "When I find out who the father of that brat is, I'm gonna kill 'im. You're mine! Never forget that." He grabs Rae's broken wrist, his mouth crooking into a grin at the piercing sounds of her screams.

With little effort, he shoves her out the door, slamming it shut. The bound remains of the unfortunate Death Eater quiver at the vibrations sent through the chambers.

Marcus angrily turns, his eyes landing upon the black satchel Rae carried with her when he took her into his chambers. He kicks it, and it spills its many secrets onto the floor, one of its secrets being the sketchbook Adrian has kept coveted for many years.

A quirk of confusion seizes Marcus as he suspiciously picks up the book

Many of the pages are filled with nothing but sketches of Rae, some more risqué than the others. There are also portraits of Adrian's parents, Terence in the middle of what seems to be a werewolf transformation, and a quick sketch of the Sorting Hat chained in a white room.

Marcus curses loudly and hurls the sketchbook into the fire pit.

"I should have known," he muses. "I'll **fucking. kill. him!**"

---

"Charlie's _what_?"

Gene Avery blinks in amazement. "Gone. Saved. Liberated," he repeats with bewilderment, counting each syllable of the words on his podgy fingers. "Didn't anyone tell you this?" he inquires, glancing at the four Weasleys left in the quaint little household. "Do you fancy more vowels to further explain his position?"

"H-H-how did this . . . how could this have happened?" Ron wonders, tripping over his tongue. He quickly glances towards Gene, huffing as he continues his chores of the day. Muttering non-verbal words beneath his breath, Ron lifts a cement incense holder of Hermione's off of an end table, running his moist dust cloth over the stained wood before placing the relic back.

Gene carelessly shrugs, his neatly cut hair falling loose before his plain-coloured, hazel eyes. "Stroke of dumb luck," he considers as he politely steps away from Ron and his new best mate--the soiled dust rag. "Didn't you question where he was?"

"We thought he was still with the _traitor_." Fred's unnaturally flat voice comes from beside the brick fireplace, followed by a soft _snap!_ and a puff of silver smoke--George's double-checker king jumped backwards over Fred's white checker, obliterating it.

"If Charlie wants to spend time with the _traitor_, that's his fancy," George finishes.

"That _traitor _has a name," Gene snaps, folding his arms in a threatening manner.

George blinks up at Gene before watching Fred's game move. "Not to us." And, "Damn, that was me favourite draught!" he pouts as he removes the ash, lightly blowing it into the smouldering-red coals of the hearth.

"Why are you here, Mister Avery?" Fred asks after commanding his double white checker to jump over George's of the red colour. Running his index finger along his game piece, the checker softly purrs, sending vibrations through the black and red checkerboard.

"Business of the Last Alliance. I have something that I need you and yours to do," Gene whispers in a hushed voice.

Ron nods and grabs for an old corn broom resting against the wall beside the walk-in closet. "And what do you need me and mine to do?" he asks as he begins to sweep the living room--for the second time that day. Dust mites never sleep, according to Ron. "Bloody hell, I'm becoming an house-elf!"

Gene steps over the corn bristles and reaches inside his black robes, withdrawing a ratty, grey knapsack. He tosses it to Ron, who hurriedly leaps back. He stares at it vacantly as it falls with a _thump!_ to the floor.

"Deliver these to some families in the area," Gene brusquely orders, raising his eyebrows as Ron jabs the knapsack twice with the end of his broom, taking a jump back in case it explodes.

"What's in it?" Ron asks as he cautiously picks it up, bringing it to his nose to sniff.

Gene snorts, shakes his head in amusement, and wonders what Ron could possibly smell from the bag. "A few wands, some common potions, and some medical supplies. The word's mum. The price we could have paid is still being tallied."

Ron salutes light-heartedly. "I'll get right on it, boss," he jokes, placing the bag underneath the dust-free end table and reaching down for his broom, hoping that he didn't splinter the wooden handle. "After the floors are swept and washed."

"Don't let the Death Eaters catch you. Or the _traitor_," the twins sing in unison.

Gene's eye twitches at Fred and George's comment and he crosses his arms. "Did you ever find the hero who killed Lord Voldemort?" he asks casually with an intensity hidden in his voice, watching with pleasure as the words lash against them, as Ron's broom collides with the end table, sending Hermione's incense holder crashing to the floor.

Fred pales. "How'd you--"

Gene bends forward and picks up the pieces of aftermath, sweeping cement pebbles underneath the scarlet couch when Ron isn't watching--he's still calming himself after hearing the infamous Dark Lord's name. "I hear things. Well, did you?" he replies curtly.

"No--" Fred starts.

"--Charlie burnt our paper--" George offers, his face dark at the memory.

"--Why?" Fred finishes.

Gene gives them a sideways grin. "Do you suppose that he could have known?"

"Did he?" George challenges.

"Yes." And, "Who was the first wizard you crossed off?"

"Harry," they speak with unity.

"Second?"

"The _traitor_," Fred explains, but only because George couldn't speak.

"Call him by his name, for he is your hero." And with that, Gene leaves.

---

Her cheek is swollen a shade of blue that was always beautiful in Adrian's eyes. Blood crusts the slight slashes adorning her pallid skin in blankets of crimson, and her stomach heaves as Rae Landon staggers into the infirmary. The doors swing shut behind her, and upon her entrance, Pansy Parkinson rushes forwards, sending an empty flask crashing to the marble in her haste.

"By Merlin, what happened?" she requests hastily, although a solitary answer has already embedded itself into her mind. Pansy places an authoritative hand upon her patient's forearm to lead her into the ward, and she then helps her into the bed beside the sleeping form of a young red-headed woman.

"Fell down some stairs," Rae wryly explains.

Pansy raises a blonde eyebrow and her hands land on her shapely hips.

"Big stairs," Rae reinforces as she rests her head upon a feather pillow.

A frown tugs on the corners of Pansy's lips and she exhales disapprovingly. "And what happens when you are seven months pregnant?" she reproaches as she wheels over a pushcart, braking alongside the infirmary bed. Resting on the pushcart is a magically enhanced ultrasound unit--all electrical currents have been replaced with mystical ones, which run at a greater efficiency and enable the unit with technology undiscovered to the Muggle community.

"I learn to run . . . keep my mouth shut . . . bite down harder next time . . ."

"Don't you use that brash tone with me, young lady."

"I hold more sway over you, so shut up and finish your job."

"We don't have ranks, Miss Landon." Pansy shakes her head; blonde curls bob about her pierced ears. Pansy unhooks Rae's robes, exposing her faintly red stomach. Squeezing an excessive amount of Gilead Balm onto her patient's abdomen, Pansy then presses the Foetoscope to Rae's skin.

"He's unharmed," Pansy explains as she replaces the Foetoscope onto the cart, pushing it towards the end of the bed and out of the way. "I wish I could say the same for you, though," she continues as she takes Rae's broken wrist with her hand, inspecting it carefully at each angle.

Rae narrows her eyes. "Just fix me. I don't need a lecture."

Pansy nods and seizes her wand from the inner pocket of her white robes. She speaks two words of in the Language of Magic and the bones melt together, reforming their proper shape. "How's this?" she asks.

Rae flinches as the magic does its painful work; she bites down on her lip, forcing a cry of pain back down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. "Better, thank you," she answers as she rotates her wrist, the bones completely healed but the tears still rimming her blue eyes.

Pansy offers Rae a friendly, yet slightly patronising, smile as she returns her wand to the inside pocket. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You can leave," a male voice coming from the doors recommends.

Pansy twists sharply on her ivory platforms, her eyes contacting with those of Adrian Pucey. "Mister Pucey!" she exclaims with surprise, her mouth gaping at the older Slytherin with black hair.

"Adrian," Rae welcomes him cautiously, offering only a conceited smirk edged with trickling blood from an opened wound from the L of her mouth.

Adrian politely inclines his head into a reluctant greeting. His heart caroms violently behind his chest as he stares at Rae, focusing upon her so intensely that her outline becomes blurred in his tired eyes. "Please leave us alone, Pansy. Miss Landon and I have some things to discuss," he tells the medi-witch through a cracking voice.

Pansy hastily obeys, taking her leave from the infirmary without word.

Rae smiles her most enticing smile as she sits up, the bed springs creaking. "How'd you know I was here?" she asks absently as she wipes the Gilead Balm clean with the white sheets of the bed, using them, as well, for the blood cornering her mouth.

"Terence awoke to your screams. He told me," Adrian answers straightforwardly.

Rae allows herself a rueful little chuckle, and she leans forward, half-rising from the bed. "Do you know that your bloody cousin betrayed you?" she growls. She collapses back onto the bed, sighing irritably.

Adrian slouches his shoulders, taking a seat on the edge of the chair nearest Rae's bed. With a crestfallen look, he clasps his hands together. "How is it betrayal? He was never on our side," Adrian contemplates softly, his mouth beginning a thin frown.

"I'm naming our son Emmett."

"_Our son! _Marcus is the father" Adrian snaps, his eyes narrowing.

Rae shifts awkwardly, hugs the feather pillow to her chest and frowns. Her eyes flicker to the fine rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows as the air suddenly becomes tenser between them. The redheaded woman next to her cracks open an eye and rolls over in the bed, falling back asleep without a second glance. "He knows, Adrian," Rae begins tensely after a moment, "he's threatened to kill the real father."

"If the gods truly care, Marcus won't find that out."


	39. Chapter Thirty Eight : Quitting Heroes

**Writer's Notes:** Wow. Simply Wow. I went to actually -write- on Chapter Forty, and realised that the last time it was modified was June of 2006. It's not that I don't -want- to continue this fanfiction.

There is a story here that I -really- would love to tell, and I would hope that people would love to hear. But that 2006 date just hit me and made me realise how busy I've gotten with university. So busy that I can barely find an hour to upload a new chapter. I wish I could do my first passion, writing, rather than my second. But writing doesn't adequately pay the bills so I will continue getting my doctorate.

But I don't want that to mean that I can't continue writing on this story. After this book, there are two more. And despite the fact that the series has come to an end, and this takes place after Goblet of Fire, I will continue it so long as there is even one pair of eyes to continue it for. When I first started in 2004 (or was is 2002?) I had many readers anticipating the next instalment. Please let me know if you guys are still around and hanging on with me.

And after opening Chapter Forty to, hopefully, finish it before my evening class, I feel warm and fuzzy and a sense of … well, I don't know how to describe it. Warmth. Fuzziness. Like listening to a really good song that just -sings- to you.

Here is chapter thirty-eight, a chapter that has been written since 2006. I hope you enjoy it.

**Losing Faith**

**Chapter Thirty-Eight : Quitting Heroes**

"_**I quit."**_

A hollow voice has opened his eyes to an empty room, gasping desperately for air, each breath stirring embers in his constricted lungs. His chamber is a black chasm of electrical storms--the white candles lining the walls have flickered dead sometime in the silence of the night. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he fumbles dumbly for his wand but cannot even find the end table next to his bed.

"Wrong side?" he murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and mentally trying to solve the case of the stolen end table. Heaving a deep, bewildered sigh, he tosses the thick black fleece from his battle-weary body. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed only to find nothing beneath his feet. Stretching his toes down, he searches for the Persian rug Fleur left him. It, like his end table, cannot be found.

"What the . . ." He leans forward, his back cracking at the sudden movement. Reaching his arm down, he sharply pulls it back when he encounters no floor. "All right, who stole my floor?" he grumbles as he lies back down, remembering to take this matter up with, well, someone in the morning.

Fluttering his eyes . . . his mind and body collapse into an appreciative slumber . . .

He is jerked to full consciousness.

The spinning room gains momentum; it wails screams that suggest pain and shakes like a shattering Earth. His bed bucks. He's suddenly falling.

But this isn't abnormal. His black hair whips around as he searches his surroundings, but his eyes only find darkness--a darkness that is welcoming, delicate and invigorating. It comforts him. For the first time, he feels safe and desires rest. But before he can fall into the familiar bottomless sleep, he drifts to a stop, landing gently upon a black marble floor.

Everything is a fading black, save for a dim light coming from the thin crack between a door and the floor. He approaches it with trembling and leery steps, entering into an ivory room with a feeling that he's been here before. Staring back, the room he was once in is now a small box at his feet, and he kicks it.

The floor beneath his bare feet is a pure white marble holding no mars of time. The walls are cosmic and white, flawed with crimson blood that haemorrhages from small cracks and pools on the floor, slowly flowing to the centre of the chamber to be one with the gathered magicks. Five framed pictures decorate the walls, as large as he is tall. Each picture holds an infamous creature of the Earth--Grindelwald, Moora elf Steel, Lord Voldemort, Lucius, and four humanoid creatures he has yet to see.

The room feeds off magick, twisting and hoarding it in the centre, and when someone enters, the black-haired wizard stares. He came from nowhere, and a silver aura surrounds him. So strong is his magickal presence that he seems to be made from nothing but magick. His hair is black as the night, his eyes blue as the sky. He wears the red robes of a Gryffindor but holds in his hands the sword of Slytherin. He looks relatively normal, save for two small horns sprouting black on his forehead.

"Dad?" the wizard asks, dumbfounded. He takes a shaking step forward, his bare feet patting echoes against the frigid marble. With every step, his mystical aura leaves a glowing imprint in the marble.

The Father nods and bestows his son an inviting smile.

No secrets are held between them, no lies can be told and no weaknesses can hide--only truth can be told in this room. From the first moment that The Father cradled his newborn son in his arms, he knew he was destined for greatness.

What he never knew, however, was that his son lacked the strength to alone bare the world upon his shoulders. He would need guidance from those who have seen what he's been through , he would need answers from those who know the questions. He would need family, he would need friends. He would need guidance. But there is one thing that he cannot find buried deep inside of others--hope. Because it ceased to exist, he alone must provide hope to a plagued nation.

"I quit," the son hears himself say but he cannot remember the hollow words flowing past his lips and out his mouth on a breath of fresh air.

This bolt from the blue strikes The Father on the chest, leaving no mark. He swiftly sheathes his sword into the scabbard around his gargoyle-hide belt, his ocean blue eyes focussing in on the leader of the Alliance. "You can't quit," he speaks after a moment, crossing his arms before his chest. His eyes quickly examine the five paintings hanging on the walls before he adds a redundant, "You're a hero, boy."

"People will die. I can't bring more death to the people I love!"

The portraits upon the walls begin to shift and change. The colours meld together into blackened chaos before vibrantly separating into five new wizards--Sirius, Remus, Igor, Severus, and Fleur. His family. The people whose death he fears more than the Death Eaters themselves, even more than he fears his own inevitable death.

"Everyone has a gift."

The wizard chuckles sarcastically. "Do not tell me mine is death," he warns.

The Father's spirit dives deep underground and he scowls. The walls are fierce with haemorrhaging, the crimson life now seeping over the bare feet of the two wizards, pooling between their toes. "You have the potential to change the world. This is what you were born for," he admonishes sternly.

"I want a normal life," the boy whispers to his father as he stares helplessly. "I wanted to be a normal kid. I didn't have a childhood, dad. I've been fighting wars ever since I can remember. I'm tired. I want out."

And as the young wizard explained his deposition, the paint of the portraits falls from the canvass and ghost hands illustrate five new ones--disembowelled Death Eaters, fighting gargoyles, a departed Molly and Arthur Weasley, Percy death-cursing Voldemort, his own birth. Slowly, the portraits decay and skulls roll onto the floor.

"That is not for you. If you quit, all people die! Their hope will barren."

"I'm tired," he repeats softly as he stretches his toes and wades them through the puddle of blood beneath his feet. Chewing the inside of his cheek, his heart sinks and skin shivers with gooseflesh. "How can I care about people I don't even know? Let them die." he finishes with a spinning and aching head. Slowly, so slowly that he doesn't notice until he awakens to a crimson-stained bed, the battle scars marring his flesh reopen and blood seeps through.

The Father irritably closes his eyes, forcing himself to remain calm with a deep breath. "Are you as ready to give up and let ever time you've ever fought for die? I'm not stupid, I don't think you are. You might think so, but I know you better than you know yourself. You won't let the world be plunged into this darkness"--and on that word, the paintings suddenly turn black.

"Who are we to challenge the wisdom of the Gods?"

And upon those black images, satellites of the solar system--the heavens--appear. One illustrates the four terrain planets while the next two show the gas giants. The fourth shows the rocky-ice environment of Pluto and Quaoar, and other planetoids of the Kuiper Belt. The fifth is an endless landscape of dwarf stars.

The Father feels his anger rise and he quickly catches the boy's eyes with his own, glaring at him with an intense fire. He tucks his hands behind his back in a calm motion, else he fears he may strangle his son. "Because if you don't, Marcus Flint is going to kill Adrian Pucey!"--and to demonstrate his point, the inner planets change to suit the God's words.

A sigh escapes The Father's lips. "To right fate. Because the strings that hold Lucius Malfoy will break and he will invade with unchallenged power until there is nothing but dark, decaying death left! Because your friends will die, but not before Malfoy and the Death Eaters torture them. Darkness will overcome the world and mankind will turn on themselves, destroying each other!" And with an furious sweep of his hand, the remaining four pictures transformed to further illustrate his point.

"So let them. I'm only one man about to break."

The Father stares thoughtfully at his son. "If you truly believe that, then don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out."

And though he commands his feet to move and pleads with his mind to bring him from this dream, nothing happens.

"You're a hero, son, like it or not," The Father reminds as he begins to fade from the chamber, his voice echoing from the walls as the blood soaks through the marble and pictures reassume their portraits of villains. "You may not always want to be, but it's who you are. You fight because not taking an action is wrong. Your death was prewritten but you escaped, and that's why the scales of power are unbalanced. It's up to you to fix them, otherwise everything will be destroyed. Look for friends where there might not be none. You're a hero, son. You're life made you that. You're death will enforce it."


	40. a momentary message from the writer

This is just a momentary update to post this message to my readers:

Oh my goddess, I have three weeks left of classes, then finals and I am done!! Five years of hard work, no life, and an hiatus from the writing that I oh-so love will have earned me an Honours in Biochemistry and Biotechnology.

Now, all I want to do is write for the rest of my life.

I am hoping to continue on some fanfictions that I've been away from for over three years and finish some original work as well. I have been working on a Sailor Moon piece lately, just something I'm quickly getting out there and posting. I have an epic of Harry Potter going, an AU where the Death Eaters win the war. I've been away from for so long, it's so different. I noticed they have this poll feature, so I am going to try it out.

Please check it out.


	41. Chapter Thirty Nine : Chosen Few

**Writer's Notes:** --walks into her fanfiction and hears only echoing silence--

I am going to post the remaining chapters of Losing Faith, and the first chapter of Book II of Losing Faith (that was written just this spring, yay!) and, depending on if my muse left me, I will decide if I will continue this. I hope I do, I hope she isn't too mad that I was gone from her for so many years.

Enjoy.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine : Chosen Few**

_**We're not warriors. We weren't bred for battle but we've come through . . . **_

Sirius Black stares from the highest balcony over the torch-lit back gardens of the Delacour Manor. His hands clasp the silver railing until his knuckles fade to the colour of fresh snow, and his breathing deepens steadily. The dark sky holds only stars tonight; the new moon is a black hole over a bleaker existence. It is the night before their assault on the Death Eaters, and everyone is preparing in their own special way.

Sirius winces, gritting his teeth as a creature from the grounds below him howls, which turns into a piercing scream of agony. He jerks his hands from the railing, mentally cursing Remus Lupin's idiocy to attempt a Change during the three nights of the new moon.

In all the years Sirius has known about werewolves, he has never heard of one daring a Change during these nights for the pain would be insufferable. Werewolves draw their power from the lunar rays and magic, if there is no moon in the sky to aid in their Change, then the Change alone depends upon the human's magickal and mental strength. It's not uncommon for a werewolf to become stuck between Changes during the time of the new moon.

Casting his violet eyes down towards the gardens, Sirius notices for the first time the amount of blood that sticks to the grey marble stones, the numerous tangles of light brown hair littering the ground that the unrecognisable creature rests upon.

His eyes fight independence of their own, wanting desperately to rip away from the sight below or gouge out his eyes so he doesn't have to witness the atrocity below. But his hands find the railing and his grip tightens until his hands are white, numb of all feeling. His teeth grind together and bite down hard upon his tongue, forcing a silent moan of reluctance from Sirius.

Remus howls as his spine continues to shatter and reform.

Sirius mutters beneath his breath, yanks his sore hands from the balcony's rail, and finally caves. His eyes rip away from Remus, back towards the Manor. They may be going into battle tomorrow, they may knock on death's door or throw someone else through the threshold. This might be the biggest mistake of their campaign, or it may prove quite the opposite.

But for Sirius, it cannot be worse than watching Remus suffer between Changes.

"Moony!" Sirius bellows, his voice begging.

Remus's only reply is a triumphant howl.

_**. . . We wear our battle scars with pride, and we have fought for our lives and won. We've won against all odds. And over my dead body will we be kneeling before Lucius Malfoy and his bloody Death Eaters. So this is where you make a choice--to live or to die. We could wait for the Death Eaters to invade France, Germany, and all other countries. We could wait for the International Ministry to help us for all the right reasons. We could let those people--our family and friends--rot in those camps while their hope burns away. Or we could take up arms and fight for ourselves, for them. I may not know much but I do know right from wrong. What the Death Eaters are doing is wrong. What we will do is right . . . **_

Charlie Weasley removes his head from the icebox and along with it an armful of breads, cheeses, and sliced meats. He turns, kicks the icebox closed with his foot and drops the makings of his midnight snack onto the granite counter in the middle of the Delacours' kitchen.

Charlie rubs his hands together--he's a true Weasley at heart, food being the one thing that matters. His tongue runs along his bottom lip, tasting the sought after sandwich, leaving a glistening trail of salvia. Cracking his knuckles, Charlie takes his new ebony wand and aims it directly at the unprepared food. He pauses.

"Bloody hell," he mumbles, realising he cannot remember the spell.

With a sigh simply out of laziness, Charlie replaces his wand into the folds of his robes and takes a step towards the island, having to prepare his snack the time-consuming, Muggle way. It is now that Charlie realises that this may be his last meal.

_**. . . Death follows Adrian Pucey, and if he falls, our quest will fail. **_

_**We will Apparate to the shores of the North Channel, near Belfast of Northern Ireland. Hagrid and his dragons will be waiting there to fly us over. Norbert and Prince Flameskin the Green-Scaled will take us as far as the outer borders of the Forbidden Forest, where we will have to continue on foot. I don't wish the dragons to be spotted and reveal our position. This is a rescue mission only! Our first priority is Adrian, then Roger, Ron, Fred and George, and any others who can join us**_ **. . . **

Igor Karkaroff sits alone in the poorly lit library, bent over a thick, heavy tome written in the ancient days. Strong purple bags hang ominously beneath Igor's eagle eyes as they rake against the antediluvian language shining beneath the light of one candle. His mind races with verbs and nouns, and he questions if that particular symbol really meant "magick" rather than "animagus" in the context it were scripted. Igor groans, tiredly grabs for another sheave of parchment, and dips his quill into a fountain of blood-red ink. One symbol can change everything--the heir of Ravenclaw might not possess the hereditary animagi gene as Igor once thought. Then that also means that "incompetent" might not refer to the heir of Hufflepuff.

Igor stretches his arms towards the high ceiling, the muscles in his back burning at the unwanted movement. Letting his eyes drift closed, the ancient symbols waltz across his eyelids, and he immediate flashes them open. Closing the book gently, he takes instead his notes on the many translations he's been working on, finishing his night with revisions. Flipping back a few pages, he comes across scratchy handwriting:

_The father_

_will kill_

_the son. _

He tears the paper from its metal bindings, throwing it into the rubbish bin--where it belongs. Of everything Igor has translated over the past years, nothing supports that theorised prophecy. And even if Igor is wrong and the baby heir dies, Adrian would still be alive. There is no problem that Igor can see. Knowing this, he peacefully falls asleep at the table.

_**. . . I once told you that we were Britain's last hope. I didn't lie. I only told you what I knew. I once told you that I refuse to sing each other's death songs. I did not lie there either. Everything might be against us in this world--we're not just battling the Death Eaters, we're waging war against destiny. Because I refuse to have everyone I have ever loved die just because some Gods who refuse to dirty their hands prewrite it.**_

Severus Snape sits cross-legged before the fireplace of his chambers, watching the orange and red flames battle each other for dominance of the hearth. Above, the clock chimes three times and Severus awaits the remaining seven hours in silent musing.

_**. . . We are not just some amateur fighters, we're not just the thorn in Malfoy's side. We're the whole enema. We will show him that we are a real threat, an approaching storm, Britain's salvation. We are not just a few wizards with dishonourable blood. There is no such thing as division by blood! We are more honourable than they are, than they ever could be. We have the potential to change the world, to rewrite history and fix the mistakes of the past. And we are going to. We have ancient elven magicks, knowledge that no one else on this earth has. We are not weak. We will not be defeated . . . **_

Fleur cannot say that the cold shiver of fright hasn't crept up her spine and froze her in place. She cannot say that she has never shed tears at night over loved ones who she has lost. She cannot say that blood has never washed her tongue or roses have smelt sickly of death and decay.

Fleur Delacour is veela but she no longer feels it.

She's come to understand that things that really mattered in life, no veela would otherwise think of. War, death, disease, famine. These touched every other race on Earth, never the veela.

Fleur stands nude before a full-bodied mirror, fresh from a fragranced bath of flowers. In a few hours, the symbolic trumpets will sound and they will be called to arms. Another special occasion, a new uniform. The Last Alliance will hide behind white robes with phoenix, gargoyle, and dragon emblems. They will wear dragon-hide boots and gloves and belts, which will hold their wand, dagger, and possibly sword.

They will fight, they may die. But no one will give them medals for their sacrifices, they will be lucky if they are remembered. If they lose, no one can console them, pat them on their backs and tell them that they can succeed next time.

For the Last Alliance, a next time doesn't exist.

They all know this.

And that is why they fight.

Why hair, nails, and whom is seeing whom, no longer matter to Fleur.

_**. . . Take a look around you. We are brothers-in-arms. We are an army! **_


	42. Chapter Forty: Song of Sorrow

**Chapter Forty : Song of Sorrow**

Shadows recede through the Forbidden Forest, slinking through the brush, as the abrasion of the crow's screech cuts through the silence. Ghostly death follows the elder creatures of lore; these majestic beings journey to lands unscathed by black magicks and darkness. The murder of crows rise with the winds, carrion snapped between their beaks, as the wailing winds cut through the capes of seven wizards. The eyesight of the canine and elf guide their paths through the mystic and dark surroundings, and they approach a hollow that has been sacred since pointy-eared creatures freely walked upon these lands.

Eyes crimson with death pierce the fogs of Hades's realm and hound the trails of the wizards. They are restrained only by the dim lights emitted by the wands of the Slytherin rear guard and white-haired forward lead.

The descendant of the elf stops abruptly, forcing those behind him to a jerking halt.

"Oi! What's the hold-up!" a red-headed wizard bellows at Sirius Black, only to be severely reprimanded into silence by the silver-haired, veela woman.

"You reckon it's too late to reconsider?" Sirius mumbles under his breath, only loud enough for his best mate to hear.

Remus Lupin shakes his head, knowing that Sirius already knows the answer.

"The roads ahead are paved with the blood of the damned," the leader of the alliance snaps, his vibrant green eyes narrowing with exasperation. "We don't have time to hold your hand if you are afraid of monsters who bite under beds and hide in the dark, Black! I don't have time for cowardice!"

Sirius's face reddens and his violet eyes gaze over with brief contempt. "There is a difference between bravery and stupidity, son," Sirius barks. "We may not walk out of this forest under our own power! There are ancient animosities between the races; we've been fighting for so long that not even the mystical creatures are capable of remembering why! There are magicks at play here that we could only dream of. Pull your head out of your arse and take a look around! We cannot expect the minotaur and centaur to take up arms and fight alongside us. Not when they would be happy to slit our throats with our own daggers!"

"Then that is why we do not carry them, Black!"

Deathly stillness falls over the companions. Wars of the ancients are forgotten history, taught only by storytelling and recorded by those who care to record them. Fleur and Charlie stare at Sirius, their eyes vacant of comprehension. Severus lowers his wand, scowling into the darkness, and carefully watches the emotions jerk on their commander's face.

"There is no time for debate. We are not a democracy!" the dark-haired commander shouts, his brows furrowing in rage and eyes narrowing with spiteful thoughts.

Sirius abruptly exhales to calm his plummeting heart. "Are we really, mate?" he speaks softly, defeated. "Could we walk from this forest with the deaths of thousands burnt into our souls, knowing that if we sacrificed, maybe one of those thousands might live? Do you expect us to surrender our blood for Pucey's on the battlefield? For Lockhart's, Longbottom's or Snape's? For yours? Does that make us heroes? Does fleeing make us cowards?"

From the woods flanking the deer-path, twenty-six eyes reflect from within the fogs, approaching silently.

Remus flickers his amber eyes toward those of a minotaur in the darkness. "Uh . . ." He yanks on the sleeve of Sirius's robes, able to lock the outline of a large minotaur in his grey vision.

The blood of Merlin's last descendant courses through his veins as he flexes his tight muscles. "If there will be an arrow in your back, Sirius, then there is not a place for you at home," he says through gritted teeth, not fully understanding the magnetism of his words.

Sirius's jaw drops of its own accord. "There will be arrows in our backs if we fight alongside those bastards!"

"Silence, you fool!" Igor admonishes, brandishing his black wand against Sirius's chest. "Hold your tongue else there will be arrows in our fronts as well!"

"One act of friendship can never stand against eons of hatred!"

"Not all centaur and minotaur harbour abhorrence towards us."

"They do not stand in favour of those who do!"

"Uh, mates . . ?"

"I never thought you'd question my leadership, Black!"

"But not for good reason," Sirius pleads. "This is a fool's errand."

"Opinion received and duly noted."

"Uh, I think we have a problem here . . ."

The heir of Merlin spins angrily toward Remus. "What is it, Lupin?"

"Them."

Two gatherings of mythical beasts, half-obscured within the shadows, surround the wizards of the Last Alliance. Six centaur with bronzed hides form a protective half-circle around a majestic centaur, their arrows poised at the wizards. Silver strands of hair crusted with blackened blood cascades over his broad shoulders and his heavily dented shield rests on his forearm, covering many scarred memories of battle. The dulled, rusted blade of a long sword, strapped against his muscled back, flickered in the dark moonlight. Scars ran in beautiful patterns across his body, a constant reminder of battle's past. The dark eyes of the centaur sovereign, Ignis, narrow as the minotaur chief and his tribe advanced from the depths of the everglades, closer toward the Last Alliance. The minotaur's fist tightens over his battle-axe.

"Bloody hell," Charlie mutters, his eyes widening as Ignis emerges into the light.

The leader of the Last Alliance slowly advances, flourishing his slender wand in a circular motion and conjuring a black obsidian table that shined with a deadened light under the moon. He placed his wand gently onto the table, and spoke evenly with a careful tone. "My friends, this glade is sacred ground and no blood shall be spilt while we are here."

Ignis nods in approval and approaches the obsidian rock, placing his heavy shield and long sword across from the wand of the commander of the wizards.

A minotaur's eyes narrow on Remus, and he stepped forward to stand next to the minotaur chief. "We will not lay down our weapons in the presence of the wizards you choose to surround yourself with."

"Do not presume to speak on my behalf, you cow!" The chief balled his fist, and in a sudden savagery, he swung his arm and crushed the minotaur's jaw with an earth-shattering blow that echoes throughout the forest. He inspects the damage on his bloody knuckles before stepping forward to take his place among equals at the table. He rests his battle-axe against the table, its blade digging into the dirt of the forest.

"That was unnecessary, Sargon," the commander spoke to the minotaur.

He snorted. "It is no business of yours, wizard. What do you want?"

"He seeks an alliance between our races, Sargon," Ignis replies.

Sargon snorts, stopping his hoof into the ground. "An alliance between our races is hopeless. You request something which is not mine to provide. The trivialities of lesser beings do not concern us. When they pass into the next life, we will continue."

"The Death Eaters will not think twice about slaughtering your race. After they have purged their own race, who do you think they will purify next? Your race is not untouchable, if you thought otherwise you would not be here."

"But have the werewolf thought twice, young wizard?" another minotaur demands, his voice emerging from the folds of shadows between his clansmen.

Remus's eyes diffuse through the darkness, narrowing on the red creature with one horn. "But have the minotaur?" he remarks, remembering his werewolf cousin Oz, whose father was murdered at the end of a minotaur's battle-axe.

"You are a youngling, werewolf. You could not be expected to remember that it was the canine species who first brought blood against us minotaur. I remember loss as much as you do, cousin of my sister's murderer. Oz was killed by my weapon for a reason, do not presume that the werewolf are innocent in this war."

The commander of the alliance slams his hand against the smooth obsidian. "If we bring past violence to this table, we will never accomplish that which we came here to accomplish. If you have issues of war between your races, resolve them on your own time."

"Frienze was wise; he counselled that to create an alliance between our races for survival, we must find forgiveness for our fathers' sins. The stars inform us that tonight is not the time of alliances, we will lend you our aid when the stars give their approval." The centaur moves to stand beside the minotaur, his dark eyes wavering and reflecting the message of the skies.

The minotaur sovereign continues his eyes landing on Remus. "When you can walk within this hallowed forest without hatred clouding your heart, an alliance can then be discussed. "He turned to the black-haired leader of the alliance. "But not before then, for my people cannot look into those disgusting amber eyes of that werewolf and see our enemy."

Remus smirks, and he assures the minotaur, "Feeling's mutual."

"The fact that you ally yourself with that creature is insulting. The filth on his soul lingers on those who he loves and trusts, those he calls friends."

"That man you call a creature has proven himself in battle more times than I can count; I wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for this man. If you are unwilling to let old prejudice die then it was a mistake to request your presence here tonight. It does not deter us from our mission, though."

"You are a fool to come here and think you will succeed," the centaur king informs him. "The Death Eaters are holding another match. Death awaits the heir of Ravenclaw on swift wings, in the guise of his best friend. How do you expect to fight the will of the gods?"

"Fate are not chiselled in stone. . . . What am I, if not proof of that?"

-

Terence Higgs wears blood-stained Quidditch robes.

"So, Adrian . . . did you hear the news?"

The Slytherin Chaser leans against the slippery wet linoleum of the shower wall, letting the water droplets pelt him against the forehead. He groans and fights a pain threatening at his temples as his cousin's detached voice floats into the showers. "What are you insinuating?" he inquires with a monotone voice as his shaking hand reaches to shut off the valve for cold water.

"You, my dear cousin, are a dead man!"

Adrian steps from the showers with nothing but a cotton towel around his neck. "I'd hate to repeat myself, but what, _my dear cousin_, are you talking about?"

"Flint."

A five-letter headache pulsates behind Adrian's ice-blue eyes. "As in trolls . . . Fireforge . . . or flint and steel?" he whispers in an uncontrolled shuddering voice as he massages the bridge of his nose. The Chaser heaves the white towel in his arms, and for a moment, contemplates its use. He tosses it into the pile in the corner.

"You should learn to chose the battles you can win, not the ones you can't fight."

Adrian grabs his Quidditch robes and pulls them over his wet body. The heavy material clings to his back, and small beads of water soak into the Slytherin-green fabric. Adrian's fingers fumble over the snake clasp at his neck as he clears his throat awkwardly, preparing to speak.

"Couldn't you just maul him for me? Get rid of all the idiots with one bite?" Adrian asks hesitantly, carefully gauging Terence's eyes for a reaction.

Terence offers his cousin a lopsided grin. "Should I start with you? Why would you do that in the first place?"

Adrian inwardly flinches as he hears Terence laugh at what his cousin thought was a jest. However, he takes only a second to recover. "Do what?" he asks with a wasteful amount of charm in his voice and the reflection of a grin that Terence offered him moments ago.

"Flint means to kill you. How can you joke about that?"

Adrian closely studies Terence's indignant expression, and the grin falls from his face. "Humour is the only emotion to keep me alive at the moment"--his voice is barely above a whisper, and he blinks away the water droplets that fall from his soaked hair and into his eyes--"Marcus is going to be the father of Emmett."

"Emmett? Who's Emmett?"

"My son!"

"No." Terence is readily apologetic. "Marcus is naming him Saturn."

"Rae's naming him Emmett," Adrian states, but his tone adopts a defensive manner.

"Do you think Flint will let her open her mouth after what happened?"

The cousins stare at each other, and Adrian slowly buckles his leather boots and gloves, his eyes never unlocking from those of Terence. The sound cracks through the silence as a steady reminder of the death waiting for them, and those of the other teams, on the Quidditch Pitch today.

"Are you ready for the massacre?" Adrian breaks the ghostly silence, expressing the thought occupying both of their minds.

The shock jolts Terence's soul, and he realises that not everyone who came from the locker rooms will be returning this night. "What do you want on your tombstone?"

"Beloved Idiot?" Adrian frowns.

"I'll make sure it's spelt right."

**- **

The Quidditch Pitch is decorated by the dull glistening of frost-bitten blood. The morning sun shines in the crisp blue sky, the sphere an obnoxious hue of yellow which offers little warmth and light. For one looking upon her from the camps, they would believe that she already mourns the loss of heroes. The unusually cold air blows in from the north, rustling the robes of the twenty-seven Quidditch players.

The Slytherin captain arrives after game time has idly elapsed thirty minutes. Blood trickles from his knuckles and coagulates around the lesions, but he stares past the pain, his gunmetal eyes transfixing on his black-haired rival with the _Firebolt Air. _Marcus Flint approaches his Quidditch team.

"Play dirty. D'yeah need a teachin'?" Marcus grunts abruptly as he snatches the bat from his new Beater, the Hufflepuff Death Eater Alexei Smirnov. Marcus's control shatters the instant he focuses on the black-haired Chaser. With a sneer crossing his cracked lips, Marcus winds up and unleashes his resentment with one good blow. Adrian comes up to block the attack, and the beater's bat viciously smashes his forearm.

Adrian reels back from the assault, too numb to feel the throbbing in his forearm and too deaf to hear the pulse echoing in his ears. He watches with glazed eyes as Marcus recovers and readies another strike, this one intended for Adrian's cranium.

Five players pounce on Marcus, struggling to restrain the livid quarter-troll.

"It'll take more than these five fuckers!" Marcus snarls, as he reaches back, seizing and twisting the neckline of the Keeper's robes. He yanks forward with a quick motion, momentarily choking his teammate before releasing his hold. The Slytherin falls to his knees and forward into the frost-tipped grass. With another effortless movement, Marcus drives his balled fist into Terence's jaw, and the werewolf staggers and falls into Alexander Montague. Those left standing to save Adrian from their captain ease their defence as Marcus stops resisting.

"I got a body bag for you, Pucey. Yer not walking off this Pitch alive!" he growls.

The fiery pain in Adrian's forearm steadily pulsates, but the phenomena known as shock has blessed Adrian and he ceases to be bothered with the pain. "You call yourself a man? You can barely satisfy a woman," Adrian snaps with a defying glare, but beads of sweat around his hairline betray his confidence.

The Slytherin team waits nervously for Marcus's reaction.

"I'll fucking--" Marcus wrenches forward from the collective grasps of those still restraining him.

"Flint!" Percy Weasley bellows, approaching from the eastern Hufflepuff goal posts. Behind the redheaded Death Eater, Lord Malfoy watches with interest. "Why are your arses still on the ground?" he demands. "Wait. What's wrong with Adrian's arm?" His forehead creases with concern, and he suddenly takes a quick glance towards the three other teams. The stand around awkwardly, attempting not to stare at the fascinating violence unfolding outside the Slytherin locker rooms.

Adrian holds up his arm, recoiling as it bends in an unnatural way. "Nothing," he replies through gritted teeth. "Really. I don't feel a thing."

A sharp breath of disapproval comes from Percy's lips, and he removes his glasses to clean them. "Without a seventh, you're disqualified," Percy informs the dumbfounded captain of the Slytherin team. His eyebrows knit together and eyes narrow, gauging the troll's response as he replaces his eyewear.

"Fuck. Couldn't you play with us?"

"No. Fix it."

The Chaser yelps and hides behind his cousin. "He is not pointing a wand at me!"

Near the eastern goal posts, Lucius Malfoy whispers words into the ear of a middle-aged woman with silver-grey hair tied tightly into a bun. Madam Greingrass nods slowly and leaves Lucius alone with himself. She approaches the Slytherin team with a disapproving look frozen upon her face.

"Why does Adrian posses a fourth joint?" Greingrass demands. "What happened?"

"Flint's stupidity happened," Percy replies bluntly.

Madam Greingrass's expression shows her displeasure at Marcus's actions. She presses the tip of her mahogany wand to Adrian's arm and mutters words of healing. "You should have the full range of motion back, Mister Pucey," she informs him in her business-like manner.

Adrian tests his movement. "Thank you," he murmurs.

The red-haired Death Eater feels Lucius's grey eyes burrow into his back. His Lord watches with interest as he manages authority over those Slytherins who are, in fact, above him in Death Eater affairs. Percy clears his throat. "If that is all, the game is late in starting. Slytherin will receive a penalty for this delay."

**-**

The crimson Quaffles are thrown high into the air, momentarily blotting out the sun. Cool winds become cooler in the North, bringing with them frozen rains that pelt against the player's cheeks and soak into their robes. High above the crowds, ice crystals form around the bristles of the broomsticks and fall to the earth in soft patterns as players crash into each other.

As Adrian Pucey intercepts a pass between two Hufflepuffs, Marcus Flint rams into Beater Alexei Smirnov, knocking him from the _Firebolt_ _Ice. _The Hufflepuff in Slytherin clothing falls toward the corner of the Pitch that is decorated with razor-wire.

Marcus immediately stops in the air, wand in hand. "_Accio_ Bat!" he yells, and the Beater's Bat that lapsed from Alexie's grasp propels toward Marcus's outstretched hand.

"And Adrian Pucey steals the Quaffle from Hufflepuff as Marcus Flint displays a new type of team effort," Gene Avery's voice bellows above the crowds, impairing the cheers and taunts that come from the stands.

The black, emotionless eyes of Marcus flicker towards Rae before he flies higher into the air, surveying those below him. Fred Weasley, Gryffindor's Beater, wails a screaming Bludger towards Roger Davies of Ravenclaw, but it's deflected by Su Li, who sends it towards Travis Nott. As Roger approaches the Slytherin goal posts, Marcus Flint spots his quarry flying around Charlie Weasley. He takes off toward the nearest bludger, smashing it in the direction of the black-haired Chaser.

And Rae surges through the group of Death Eaters watching from the grounds, as the Lord of Britain laughs in amusement, "Flint'll kill him!"

Adrian wills his _Firebolt Air_ faster. The Bludger soars past his head.

The voice of Gene booms over the sounds of game. "Slytherin and Hufflepuff are in possession of the Quaffles, and Marcus Flint is going to murder his own Chaser!"

If a mere look would kill, Marcus could have flayed Adrian with innumerable manners. He takes flight towards another Bludger, and Adrian seeks refuge between fluttering red, orange and blue robes. As Marcus winds up . . . he hears the summoning spell leave Adrian's lips.

The bat of Fred Weasley fights against his freckled hand and flies toward the one who summoned it.

"Percy!" Rae shouts, emerging from the crowd. "Lord Malfoy, please!"

Lucius turns a cold eye at his Death Eater.

"Please, my Lord, you cannot allow this to continue. Marcus aims to kill Adrian!"

The silver snake-head cane glistens in the sun, and Lucius appears to consider her request. He looks up into the sky, watching as Marcus forgets about Bludgers and adopts a more hands-on approach. Lucius then straightens, his expression grim. "Your request is trivial, Landon. A Death Eater should not be ruled by their emotions."

Rae wrings her hands. "Have you examined your court, my Lord? Every Death Eater below your hand is ruled by affairs to the heart," she informs, forcing her voice to keep a tone of respect.

Lucius's eyebrows knit together with slight infuriation, and he draws back, regarding Rae with critical grey eyes. "That will be their deaths," he gravely states.

"Without a court, you cannot be Lord, Lucius," Percy speaks the words that falter at Rae's opened lips. Percy regards Lucius with azure eyes that Lucius will never realise hold pity; he confuses the emotion with defiance. Percy mock-bows.

Far above the ground, Travis Nott catches the ball, and the only Slytherin Chaser playing this game streaks toward the Gryffindor goal posts. Travis soars past the Gryffindor Chaser Ronald Weasley, his green robes merely a blur to the others as he approaches the tallest Gryffindor goal hoop. George Weasley attempts to knock a Bludger into Travis's path, but Travis's eyesight is keen. He ducks, scoring ten points.

Lucius continues the conversation, relentless. "Your request has been denied, Landon," he repeats distantly, turning his head back to the action in the sky.

Rae parallels the bow Percy gave Lucius moments earlier and disappears through the masses of Death Eaters. But through the black-robed maze, a red-headed Death Eater follows, calling her name before she vanishes from his vision. Rae spins around, her robes fluttering against the wind, waiting for Percy to speak.

No words could ever make sense if Percy spoke them to the brunette. What could he tell her? he thought. The Last Alliance, Adrian being the last heir they seek? No, none of it would make sense to her right now. Therefore, all Percy could do was stare at her like a dolt, mouth gaped and eyes wide.

Rae's lip curls, and she curses Percy's name.

He watches as she disappears into the throngs of Death Eaters, ignoring the echoing of cheers as Slytherin Travis Nott scores against Ravenclaw, as Marcus drops the Beater's bat only to take his wand from the inside pockets of his Quidditch robes.

But the Death Eaters and prisoners aren't the only ones watching in hushed anticipation as Marcus closes the distance between him and Adrian, whom is racing between the outer perimetre of the arena. All the Last Alliance appear to be to those flying in the skies are small white specks against a forest green background.

"Our Ravenclaw heir is about to be a victim of circumstance," Igor muses.

The leader of the Last Alliance blanches.

As Gryffindor scores ten points, and Hufflepuff gains possession of one of the Quaffles, Marcus closes in on the Chaser. Adrian can feel Death's skeletal hand resting on his shoulder, impressing white marks onto his skin, patiently waiting his last moments.

Marcus de-brooms the wizard who was once his best mate with a simple kick to the abdomen, and the doomed Chaser plunges towards the razor-wired ground below.

The ranks of the Last Alliance are broken as the heir of Merlin rushes forward, his wand poised in the direction of what he considers to be his last hope. And moments before Adrian's skull is destined to be cracked open, he comes to a jolting stop inches above the ground.

The Last Alliance appears to be their own Quidditch team. Seven players in sparkling white robes, a magnificent contrast against the velvety black robes of those they fight against. The emblem worn across their hearts is the gargoyle, phoenix and dragon, a brilliant contrast of Earth, flame and beauty, of reincarnation, vigour and perseverance.

The masses sitting in the stands rises to their feet, cranking their heads to get a better view of the white-robed wizards standing at the outer regions of the Forbidden Forest. The six heroes stride forward to stand next to their young leader, as he lets Adrian drift slowly and softly to the ground clear of razor wire. The Last Alliance forms a semi-triangle, and Lord Lucius Malfoy turns toward them with a blaze smouldering in his eyes, for he recognised them the moment they appeared.

The Quidditch players hang in the sky, staring at the faction with disbelieving eyes. An intense burst of wind sweeps across the grounds, blowing only the leader's hair from his eyes and forehead. In that moment, there was no way that Ronald Weasley could not possibly recognise his best mate.

And Lucius Malfoy stared at the boy he killed, at the boy who died.

**/End Book I of Losing Faith; Book II coming… hopefully soon; Please consider a review**


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